ODD    CRAFT 


ODD  CRAFT 


BY 
W.   W.   JACOBS 


IComUGHT,  1903,  BV 

W.  W.  JACOBS 

COPYRIGHT,  1903,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Ail  rights  reserved 


Published,  October,  1909 


Stacfl 


33.tr 

1*103 
CONTENTS 

FAG* 

THE  MONEY  Box      .  *  ........    .  i 

THE  CASTAWAY     .........     .     .  25 

BLUNDELL'S  IMPROVEMENT    ........  53 

BILL'S  LAPSE     ............  77 

LAWYER  QUINCE   ...........  101 

BREAKING  A  SPELL     .     .........  125 

ESTABLISHING  RELATIONS      ........  147 

THE  CHANGING  NUMBERS    ........  171 

THE  PERSECUTION  OF  BOB  PRETTY    .....  197 

DIXON'S  RETURN    ......     .....  221 

A  SPIRIT  OF  AVARICE     .........  245 

THE  THIRD  STRING        .     ........  267 

ODD  CHARGES       ...........  293 

ADMIRAL  PETERS  ........     ...317 


THE    MONEY-BOX 

SAILORMEN  are  not  good  'ands  at  saving 
money  as  a  rule,  said  the  night-watchman,  as 
he  wistfully  toyed  with  a  bad  shilling  on  his 
watch-chain,  though  to  'ear  'em  talk  of  saving  when 
they're  at  sea  and  there  isn't  a  pub  within  a  thousand 
miles  of  'em,  you  might  think  different. 

It  ain't  for  the  want  of  trying  either  with  some 
of  'em,  and  I've  known  men  do  all  sorts  o'  things  as 
soon  as  they  was  paid  off,  with  a  view  to  saving. 
I  knew  one  man  as  used  to  keep  all  but  a  shilling  or 
two  in  a  belt  next  to  'is  skin  so  that  he  couldn't  get 
at  it  easy,  but  it  was  all  no  good.  He  was  always 
running  short  in  the  most  inconvenient  places.  I've 
seen  'im  wriggle  for  five  minutes  right  off,  with  a 
tramcar  conductor  standing  over  'im  and  the  other 
people  in  the  tram  reading  their  papers  with  one  eye 
and  watching  him  with  the  other. 

Ginger  Dick  and  Peter  Russet — two  men  I've 
spoke  of  to  you  afore — tried  to  save  their  money 
once.  They'd  got  so  sick  and  tired  of  spending  it 
all  in  p'r'aps  a  week  or  ten  days  arter  coming  ashore, 
and  'aving  to  go  to  sea  agin  sooner  than  they  'ad 

3 


The  Money-Box 

intended,  that  they  determined  some  way  or  other 
to  'ave  things  different. 

They  was  homeward  bound  on  a  steamer  from 
Melbourne  when  they  made  their  minds  up;  and 
Isaac  Lunn,  the  oldest  fireman  aboard — a  very  steady 
old  teetotaler — gave  them  a  lot  of  good  advice  about 
it.  They  all  wanted  to  rejoin  the  ship  when  she 
sailed  agin,  and  'e  offered  to  take  a  room  ashore  with 
them  and  mind  their  money,  giving  'em  what  'e  called 
a  moderate  amount  each  day. 

They  would  ha'  laughed  at  any  other  man,  but 
they  knew  that  old  Isaac  was  as  honest  as  could  be 
and  that  their  money  would  be  safe  with  'im,  and 
at  last,  after  a  lot  of  palaver,  they  wrote  out  a  paper 
saying  as  they  were  willing  for  'im  to  'ave  their 
money  and  give  it  to  'em  bit  by  bit,  till  they  went 
to  sea  agin. 

Anybody  but  Ginger  Dick  and  Peter  Russet  or  a 
fool  would  ha'  known  better  than  to  do  such  a  thing, 
but  old  Isaac  'ad  got  such  a  oily  tongue  and  seemed 
so  fair-minded  about  wot  'e  called  moderate  drink- 
ing that  they  never  thought  wot  they  was  letting 
themselves  in  for,  and  when  they  took  their  pay — 
close  on  sixteen  pounds  each — they  put  the  odd 
change  in  their  pockets  and  'anded  the  rest  over  to 
him. 

The  first  day  they  was  as  pleased  as  Punch.  Old 
Isaac  got  a  nice,  respectable  bedroom  for  them  all, 

4 


The  Money-Box 

and  arter  they'd  'ad  a  few  drinks  they  humoured  'im 
by  'aving  a  nice  'ot  cup  o'  tea,  and  then  goin'  off  with 
'im  to  see  a  magic-lantern  performance. 

It  was  called  "The  Drunkard's  Downfall,"  and 
it  begun  with  a  young  man  going  into  a  nice-looking 
pub  and  being  served  by  a  nice-looking  barmaid  with 
a  glass  of  ale.  Then  it  got  on  to  'arf  pints  and 
pints  in  the  next  picture,  and  arter  Ginger  'ad  seen 
the  lost  young  man  put  away  six  pints  in  about  'arf 
a  minute,  'e  got  such  a  raging  thirst  on  'im  that  'e 
couldn't  sit  still,  and  'e  whispered  to  Peter  Russet 
to  go  out  with  'im. 

"You'll  lose  the  best  of  it  if  you  go  now,"  ses  old 
Isaac,  in  a  whisper;  "in  the  next  picture  there's  little 
frogs  and  devils  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  pot  as 
'e  goes  to  drink." 

Ginger  Dick  got  up  and  nodded  to  Peter. 

"Arter  that  'e  kills  ?is  mother  with  a  razor,"  ses  old 
Isaac,  pleading  with  'im  and  'olding  on  to  'is  coat. 

Ginger  Dick  sat  down  agin,  and  when  the  murder 
was  over  'e  said  it  made  '5m  feel  faint,  and  'im  and 
Peter  Russet  went  out  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air. 
They  'ad  three  at  the  first  place,  and  then  they  moved 
on  to  another  and  forgot  all  about  Isaac  and  the 
dissolving  views  until  ten  o'clock,  when  Ginger,  who 
'ad  been  very  liberal  to  some  friends  'e'd  made  in  a 
pub,  found  'e'd  spent  'is  last  penny. 

"This  comes  o'  listening  to  a  parcel  o'  teetotalers," 

5 


The  Money-Box 

'e  ses,  very  cross,  when  'e  found  that  Peter  'ad  spent 
all  'is  money  too.  "Here  we  are  just  beginning  the 
evening  and  not  a  farthing  in  our  pockets." 

They  went  off  'ome  in  a  very  bad  temper.  Old 
Isaac  was  asleep  in  'is  bed,  and  when  they  woke  'im 
up  and  said  that  they  was  going  to  take  charge  of 
their  money  themselves  'e  kept  dropping  off  to  sleep 
agin  and  snoring  that  'ard  they  could  scarcely  hear 
themselves  speak.  Then  Peter  tipped  Ginger  a  wink 
and  pointed  to  Isaac's  trousers,  which  were  'anging 
over  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

Ginger  Dick  smiled  and  took  'em  up  softly,  and 
Peter  Russet  smiled  too ;  but  'e  wasn't  best  pleased  to 
see  old  Isaac  a-smiling  in  'is  sleep,  as  though  'e  was 
'aving  amusing  dreams.  All  Ginger  found  was  a  ha'- 
penny, a  bunch  o'  keys,  and  a  cough  lozenge.  In  the 
coat  and  waistcoat  'e  found  a  few  tracks  folded  up, 
a  broken  pen-knife,  a  ball  of  string,  and  some  other 
rubbish.  Then  'e  set  down  on  the  foot  o'  their  bed 
and  made  eyes  over  at  Peter. 

"Wake  'im  up  agin,"  ses  Peter,  in  a  temper. 

Ginger  Dick  got  up  and,  leaning  over  the  bed,  took 
old  Isaac  by  the  shoulders  and  shook  'im  as  if  Vd 
been  a  bottle  o'  medicine. 

"Time  to  get  up,  lads?"  ses  old  Isaac,  putting  one 
leg  out  o'  bed. 

"No,  it  ain't,"  ses  Ginger,  very  rough;  "we  ain't 
been  to  bed  yet.  We  want  our  money  back." 

6 


The  Money- Box 


Isaac  drew  'is  leg  back  into  bed  agin.  "Goo* 
night,"  he  ses,  and  fell  fast  asleep. 

"He's  shamming,  that's  wot  'e  is,"  ses  Peter  Rus- 
set. "Let's  look  for  it.  It  must  be  in  the  room 
somewhere." 

They  turned  the  room  upside  down  pretty  near, 
and  then  Ginger  Dick  struck  a  match  and  looked 
up  the  chimney,  but  all  'e  found  was  that  it  'adn't 
been  swept  for  about  twenty  years,  and  wot  with 
temper  and  soot  'e  looked  so  frightful  that  Peter 
was  arf  afraid  of  'im. 

"I've  'ad  enough  of  this,"  ses  Ginger,  running 
up  to  the  bed  and  'olding  his  sooty  fist  under  old 
Isaac's  nose.  "Now,  then,  where's  that  money?  If 
you  don't  give  us  our  money,  our  'ard-earned  money, 
inside  o'  two  minutes,  I'll  break  every  bone  in  your 
body." 

"This  is  wot  comes  o'  trying  to  do  you  a  favour, 
Ginger,"  ses  the  old  man,  reproachfully. 

"Don't  talk  to  me,"  ses  Ginger,  "cos  I  won't  have 
it.  Come  on;  where  is  it?" 

Old  Isaac  looked  at  'im,  and  then  he  gave  a 
sigh  and  got  up  and  put  on  'is  boots  and  'is  trou- 
sers. 

"I  thought  I  should  'ave  a  little  trouble  with  you," 
he  ses,  slowly,  "but  I  was  prepared  for  that." 

"You'll  'ave  more  if  you  don't  hurry  up,"  ses  Gin- 
ger, glaring  at  'im. 

7 


The  Money-Box 


"We  don't  want  to  'urt  you,  Isaac,"  ses  Peter 
Russet,  "we  on'y  want  our  money." 

"I  know  that,"  ses  Isaac;  "you  keep  still,  Peter, 
and  see  fair-play,  and  I'll  knock  you  silly  arter- 
wards." 

He  pushed  some  o'  the  things  into  a  corner  and 
then  'e  spat  on  'is  'ands,  and  began  to  prance  up  and 
down,  and  duck  'is  'ead  about  and  hit  the  air  in  a 
way  that  surprised  'em. 

"I  ain't  hit  a  man  for  five  years,"  'e  ses,  still  danc- 
ing up  and  down — "fighting's  sinful  except  in  a  good 
cause — but  afore  I  got  a  new  'art,  Ginger,  I'd  lick 
three  men  like  you  afore  breakfast,  just  to  git  up  a 
appetite." 

"Look  'ere,"  ses  Ginger;  "you're  an  old  man  and 
I  don't  want  to  'urt  you;  tell  us  where  our  money 
is,  our  'ard-earned  money,  and  I  won't  lay  a  finger 
on  you." 

"I'm  taking  care  of  it  for  you,"  ses  the  old  man. 

Ginger  Dick  gave  a  howl  and  rushed  at  him,  and 
the  next  moment  Isaac's  fist  shot  out  and  give  'im 
a  drive  that  sent  'im  spinning  across  the  room  until 
'e  fell  in  a  heap  in  the  fireplace.  It  was  like  a  kick 
from  a  'orse,  and  Peter  looked  very  serious  as  'e 
picked  'im  up  and  dusted  Mm  down. 

"You  should  keep  your  eye  on  'is  fist,"  he  ses, 
sharply. 

It  was  a  silly  thing  to  say,  seeing  that  that  was  just 


The  Money-Box 


wot  'ad  'appened,  and  Ginger  told  'im  wot  'e'd  do 
for  'im  when  'e'd  finished  with  Isaac.  He  went  at 
the  old  man  agin,  but  'e  never  'ad  a  chance,  and  in 


"  'I  ain't  hit  a  man  for  five  years,'  he  set.*' 

about  three  minutes  'e  was  very  glad  to  let  Peter 
'elp  'im  into  bed. 

"It's  your  turn  to  fight  him  now,  Peter,"  he  ses, 
"Just  move  this  piller  so  as  I  can  see." 

9 


The  Money-Box 


"Come  on,  lad,"  ses  the  old  man. 

Peter  shook  'is  'ead.  "I  have  no  wish  to  'urt  you, 
Isaac,"  he  ses,  kindly;  "excitement  like  fighting  is 
dangerous  for  an  old  man.  Give  us  our  money  and 
we'll  say  no  more  about  it." 

"No,  my  lads,"  ses  Isaac.  "I've  undertook  to  take 
charge  o'  this  money  and  I'm  going  to  do  it;  and  I 
'ope  that  when  we  all  sign  on  aboard  the  Planet 
there'll  be  a  matter  o'  twelve  pounds  each  left.  Now, 
I  don't  want  to  be  'arsh  with  you,  but  I'm  going  back 
to  bed,  and  if  I  'ave  to  get  up  and  dress  agin  you'll 
wish  yourselves  dead." 

He  went  back  to  bed  agin,  and  Peter,  taking  no 
•otice  of  Ginger  Dick,  who  kept  calling  Mm  a  coward, 
got  into  bed  alongside  of  Ginger  and  fell  fast  asleep. 

They  all  'ad  breakfast  in  a  coffee-shop  next  morn- 
ing, and  arter  it  was  over  Ginger,  who  'adn't  spoke 
t  word  till  then,  said  that  'e  and  Peter  Russet  wanted 
a  little  money  to  go  on  with.  He  said  they  preferred 
to  get  their  meals  alone,  as  Isaac's  face  took  their 
appetite  away. 

"Very  good,"  ses  the  old  man.  "I  don't  want  to 
force  my  company  on  nobody,"  and  after  thinking 
*ard  for  a  minute  or  two  he  put  'is  'and  in  'is  trouser- 
pocket  and  gave  them  eighteen-pence  each. 

"Wot's  this  for?"  ses  Ginger,  staring  at  the  money. 
"Matches?" 

"That's  your  day's  allowance,"  ses  Isaac,  "and  it's 

io 


The  Money-Box 

plenty.  There's  ninepence  for  your  dinner,  fourpence 
for  your  tea,  and  twopence  for  a  crust  o'  bread  and 
cheese  for  supper.  And  if  you  must  go  and  drown 


«Wot's  this  for?'  ses  Ginger.*1 


yourselves  in  beer,  that  leaves  threepence  each  to  go 
and  do  it  with." 

Ginger  tried  to  speak  to  Mm,  but  'is  feelings  was 


ii 


The  Money-Box 

too  much  for  'im,  and  'e  couldn't.  Then  Peter  Rus- 
set swallered  something  'e  was  going  to  say  and  asked 
old  Isaac  very  perlite  to  make  it  a  quid  for  'im  be- 
cause he  was  going  down  to  Colchester  to  see  'is 
mother,  and  'e  didn't  want  to  go  empty-'anded. 

"You're  a  good  son,  Peter,"  ses  old  Isaac,  "and 
I  wish  there  was  more  like  you.  I'll  come  down  with 
you,  if  you  like;  I've  got  nothing  to  do." 

Peter  said  it  was  very  kind  of  'im,  but  'e'd  sooner 
go  alone,  owing  to  his  mother  being  very  shy  afore 
strangers. 

"Well,  I'll  come  down  to  the  station  and  take  a 
ticket  for  you,"  ses  Isaac. 

Then  Peter  lost  'is  temper  altogether,  and  banged 
'is  fist  on  the  table  and  smashed  'arf  the  crockery. 
He  asked  Isaac  whether  'e  thought  'im  and  Ginger 
Dick  was  a  couple  o'  children,  and  'e  said  if  'e  didn't 
give  'em  all  their  money  right  away  'e'd  give  'im  in 
charge  to  the  first  policeman  they  met. 

"I'm  afraid  you  didn't  intend  for  to  go  and  see 
your  mother,  Peter,"  ses  the  old  man. 

"Look  'ere,"  ses  Peter,  "are  you  going  to  give  us 
that  money?" 

"Not  if  you  went  down  on  your  bended  knees," 
ses  the  old  man. 

"Very  good,"  says  Peter,  getting  up  and  walking 
outside;  "then  come  along  o'  me  to  find  a  police- 


man." 


12 


The  Money-Box 

"I'm  agreeable,"  ses  Isaac,  "but  I've  got  the  paper 
you  signed." 

Peter  said  'e  didn't  care  twopence  if  Vd  got  fifty 
papers,  and  they  walked  along  looking  for  a  police- 
man, which  was  a  very  unusual  thing  for  them  to  do. 

"I  'ope  for  your  sakes  it  won't  be  the  same  police- 
man that  you  and  Ginger  Dick  set  on  in  Gun  Alley 
the  night  afore  you  shipped  on  the  Planet,"  ses  Isaac, 
pursing  up  'is  lips. 

"  'Tain't  likely  to  be,"  ses  Peter,  beginning  to 
wish  'e  'adn't  been  so  free  with  'is  tongue. 

"Still,  if  I  tell  'im,  I  dessay  he'll  soon  find  'im," 
ses  Isaac;  "there's  one  coming  along  now,  Peter; 
shall  I  stop  'im?" 

Peter  Russet  looked  at  'im  and  then  he  looked 
at  Ginger,  and  they  walked  by  grinding  their  teeth. 
They  stuck  to  Isaac  all  day,  trying  to  get  their  money 
out  of  'im,  and  the  names  they  called  'im  was  a  sur- 
prise even  to  themselves.  And  at  night  they  turned 
the  room  topsy-turvy  agin  looking  for  their  money 
and  'ad  more  unpleasantness  when  they  wanted  Isaac 
to  get  up  and  let  'em  search  the  bed. 

They  'ad  breakfast  together  agin  next  morning 
and  Ginger  tried  another  tack.  He  spoke  quite  nice 
to  Isaac,  and  'ad  three  large  cups  o'  tea  to  show  'im 
'ow  'e  was  beginning  to  like  it,  and  when  the  old 
man  gave  'em  their  eighteen-pences  'e  smiled  and 
said  Vd  like  a  few  shillings  extra  that  day. 

13 


The  Money-Box 


"It'll  be  all  right,  Isaac,"  he  ses.  "I  wouldn't  'ave 
a  drink  if  you  asked  me  to.  Don't  seem  to  care  for 
it  now.  I  was  saying  so  to  you  on'y  last  night, 
wasn't  I,  Peter?" 

"You  was,"  ses  Peter;  "so  was  I." 

"Then  I've  done  you  good,  Ginger,"  ses  Isaac, 
clapping  'im  on  the  back. 

"You  'ave,"  ses  Ginger,  speaking  between  his 
teeth,  "and  I  thank  you  for  it.  I  don't  want  drink; 
but  I  thought  o'  going  to  a  music-'all  this  evening." 

"Going  to  wot?"  ses  old  Isaac,  drawing  'imself 
up  and  looking  very  shocked. 

"A  music-'all,"  ses  Ginger,  trying  to  keep  'is  tem- 
per. 

"A  music-'all,"  ses  Isaac;  "why,  it's  worse  than  a 
pub,  Ginger.  I  should  be  a  very  poor  friend  o'  yours 
if  I  let  you  go  there — I  couldn't  think  of  it." 

"Wot's  it  got  to  do  with  you,  you  gray- whiskered 
serpent?"  screams  Ginger,  arf  mad  with  rage.  "Why 
don't  you  leave  us  alone?  Why  don't  you  mind  your 
own  business?  It's  our  money." 

Isaac  tried  to  talk  to  Mm,  but  'e  wouldn't  listen, 
and  he  made  such  a  fuss  that  at  last  the  coffee-shop 
keeper  told  Mm  to  go  outside.  Peter  follered  Mm 
out,  and  being  very  upset  they  went  and  spent  their 
day's  allowance  in  the  first  hour,  and  then  they 
walked  about  the  streets  quarrelling  as  to  the  death 
they'd  like  old  Isaac  to  'ave  when  Ms  time  came. 


The  Money-Box 

They  went  back  to  their  lodgings  at  dinner-time,; 
but  there  was  no  sign  of  the  old  man,  and,  being  'un- 
gry  and  thirsty,  they  took  all  their  spare  clothes  to 
a  pawnbroker  and  got  enough  money  to  go  on  with. 
Just  to  show  their  independence  they  went  to  two 
music-'alls,  and  with  a  sort  of  idea  that  they  was 
doing  Isaac  a  bad  turn  they  spent  every  farthing 
afore  they  got  'ome,  and  sat  up  in  bed  telling  'im 
about  the  spree  they'd  'ad. 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  Peter  woke  up  and 
saw,  to  'is  surprise,  that  Ginger  Dick  was  dressed 
and  carefully  folding  up  old  Isaac's  clothes.  At 
first  'e  thought  that  Ginger  'ad  gone  mad,  taking 
care  of  the  old  man's  things  like  that,  but  afore  'e 
could  speak  Ginger  noticed  that  'e  was  awake,  and 
stepped  over  to  'im  and  whispered  to  'im  to  dress 
without  making  a  noise.  Peter  did  as  'e  was  told, 
and,  more  puzzled  than  ever,  saw  Ginger  make  up 
all  the  old  man's  clothes  in  a  bundle  and  creep  out 
of  the  room  on  tiptoe. 

"Going  to  'ide  'is  clothes?"  'e  ses. 

"Yes,"  ses  Ginger,  leading  the  way  downstairs; 
"in  a  pawnshop.  We'll  make  the  old  man  pay  for 
to-day's  amusements." 

Then  Peter  see  the  joke  and  'e  begun  to  laugh  so 
'ard  that  Ginger  'ad  to  threaten  to  knock  'is  head 
off  to  quiet  'im.  Ginger  laughed  'imself  when  they 
got  outside,  and  at  last,  arter  walking  about  till  the 

15 


The  Money-Box 

shops  opened,  they  got  into  a  pawnbroker's  and  put 
old  Isaac's  clothes  up  for  fifteen  shillings. 


"They  put  old  Isaac's  clothes  up  for  fifteen  shUlingj.** 

First  thing  they  did  was  to  'ave  a  good  breakfast, 
and  after  that  they  came  out  smiling  all  over  and 

16 


The  Money-Box 

began  to  spend  a  'appy  day.  Ginger  was  in  tip-top 
spirits  and  so  was  Peter,  and  the  idea  that  old  Isaac 
was  in  bed  while  they  was  drinking  'is  clothes  pleased 
them  more  than  anything.  Twice  that  evening  po- 
licemen spoke  to  Ginger  for  dancing  on  the  pavement, 
and  by  the  time  the  money  was  spent  it  took  Peter 
all  'is  time  to  get  'im  'ome. 

Old  Isaac  was  in  bed  when  they  got  there,  and 
the  temper  'e  was  in  was  shocking;  but  Ginger  sat 
on  'is  bed  and  smiled  at  'im  as  if  'e  was  saying  com- 
pliments to  'im. 

"Where's  my  clothes?"  ses  the  old  man,  shaking 
'is  fist  at  the  two  of  'em. 

Ginger  smiled  at  'im;  then  'e  shut  'is  eyes  and 
dropped  off  to  sleep. 

"Where's  my  clothes?"  ses  Isaac,  turning  to  Peter. 

"Closhe?"  ses  Peter,  staring  at  'im. 

"Where  are  they?"  ses  Isaac. 

It  was  a  long  time  afore  Peter  could  understand 
wot  'e  meant,  but  as  soon  as  'e  did  'e  started  to  look 
for  'em.  Drink  takes  people  in  different  ways,  and 
the  way  it  always  took  Peter  was  to  make  'im  one 
o'  the  most  obliging  men  that  ever  lived.  He  spent 
arf  the  night  crawling  about  on  all  fours  looking 
for  the  clothes,  and  four  or  five  times  old  Isaac  woke 
up  from  dreams  of  earthquakes  to  find  Peter  'ad  got 
jammed  under  'is  bed,  and  was  wondering  what  'ad 
'appened  to  'im. 

'7 


The  Money-Box 


None  of  'em  was  in  the  best  o'  tempers  when  they 
woke  up  next  morning,  and  Ginger  'ad  'ardly  got 
'is  eyes  open  before  Isaac  was  asking  'im  about  'is 
clothes  agin. 

"Don't  bother  me  about  your  clothes,"  ses  Gin- 
ger; "talk  about  something  else  for  a  change." 

"Where  are  they?"  ses  Isaac,  sitting  on  the  edge 
of  'is  bed. 

Ginger  yawned  and  felt  in  'is  waistcoat  pocket — 
for  neither  of  'em  'ad  undressed — and  then  *e  took 
the  pawn-ticket  out  and  threw  it  on  the  floor.  Isaac 
picked  it  up,  and  then  'e  began  to  dance  about  the 
room  as  if  'e'd  gone  mad. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you've  pawned  my 
clothes?"  he  shouts. 

"Me  and  Peter  did,"  ses  Ginger,  sitting  up  in  bed 
and  getting  ready  for  a  row. 

Isaac  dropped  on  the  bed  agin  all  of  a  'cap. 
"And  wot  am  I  to  do?"  he  ses. 

"If  you  be'ave  yourself,"  ses  Ginger,  "and  give  us 
our  money,  me  and  Peter'll  go  and  get  'em  out  agin. 
When  we've  'ad  breakfast,  that  is.  There's  no  hurry." 

"But  I  'aven't  got  the  money,"  ses  Isaac;  "it  was 
all  sewn  up  in  the  lining  of  the  coat.  I've  on'y  got 
about  five  shillings.  You've  made  a  nice  mess  of 
it,  Ginger,  you  'ave." 

"You're  a  silly  fool,  Ginger,  that's  wot  you  are," 
ses  Peter. 

18 


The  Money-Box 


"Sewn  up  in  the  lining  of  the  coat?"  ses  Ginger, 
staring. 

"The  bank-notes  was,"  ses  Isaac,  "and  three 
pounds  in  gold  'idden  in  the  cap.  Did  you  pawn 
that  too?" 

Ginger  got  up  in  'is  excitement  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  room.  "We  must  go  and  get  'em  out  at 
once,"  he  ses.  » 

"And  where's  the  money  to  do  it  with?"  ses  Peter, 

Ginger  'adn't  thought  of  that,  and  it  struck  'im  all 
of  a  heap.  None  of  'em  seemed  to  be  able  to  think 
of  a  way  of  getting  the  other  ten  shillings  wot  was 
wanted,  and  Ginger  was  so  upset  that  'e  took  no  no- 
tice of  the  things  Peter  kept  saying  to  'im. 

"Let's  go  and  ask  to  see  'em,  and  say  we  left  a 
railway-ticket  in  the  pocket,"  ses  Peter. 

Isaac  shook  'is  'ead.  "There's  on'y  one  way  to 
do  it,"  he  ses.  "We  shall  'ave  to  pawn  your  clothes, 
Ginger,  to  get  mine  out  with." 

"That's  the  on'y  way,  Ginger,"  ses  Peter,  bright- 
ening up.  "Now,  wot's  the  good  o'  carrying  on  like 
that?  It's  no  worse  for  you  to  be  without  your 
clothes  for  a  little  while  than  it  was  for  pore  old 
Isaac." 

It  took  'em  quite  arf  an  hour  afore  they  could  get 
Ginger  to  see  it.  First  of  all  'e  wanted  Peter's 
clothes  to  be  took  instead  of  'is,  and  when  Peter 
pointed  out  that  they  was  too  shabby  to  fetch  ten 

19 


The  Money-Box 


shillings  'e  'ad  a  lot  o'  nasty  things  to  say  about 
wearing  such  old  rags,  and  at  last,  in  a  terrible  tem- 
per, 'e  took  'is  clothes  off  and  pitched  'em  in  a  'eap 
on  the  floor. 

"If  you  ain't  back  in  arf  an  hour,  Peter,"  'e  ses, 
scowling  at  'im,  "you'll  'ear  from  me,  I  can  tell 
you." 

"Don't  you  worry  about  that,"  ses  Isaac,  with  a 
smile.  "7'w  going  to  take  'em." 

"You?"  ses  Ginger;  "but  you  can't.  You  ain't 
got  no  clothes." 

"I'm  going  to  wear  Peter's,"  ses  Isaac,  with  a 
smile. 

Peter  asked  'im  to  listen  to  reason,  but  it  was  all 
no  good.  He'd  got  the  pawn-ticket,  and  at  last  Peter, 
forgetting  all  he'd  said  to  Ginger  Dick  about  using 
bad  langwidge,  took  'is  clothes  off,  one  by  one,  and 
dashed  'em  on  the  floor,  and  told  Isaac  some  of  the 
things  'e  thought  of  'im. 

The  old  man  didn't  take  any  notice  of  'im.  He 
dressed  'imself  up  very  slow  and  careful  in  Peter's 
clothes,  and  then  'e  drove  'em  nearly  crazy  by  wast- 
ing time  making  'is  bed. 

"Be  as  quick  as  you  can,  Isaac,"  ses  Ginger,  at 
last;  "think  of  us  two  a-sitting  'ere  waiting  for 
you." 

"I  sha'n't  forget  it,"  ses  Isaac,  and  'e  came  back 
to  the  door  after  'e'd  gone  arf-way  down  the  stairs 

2C 


The  Money-Box 

to  ask  'em  not  to  go  out  on  the  drink  while  'e  was 
away. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  when  he  went,  and  at  ha'-past 
nine  Ginger  began  to  get  impatient  and  wondered 
wot  'ad  'appened  to  'im,  and  when  ten  o'clock  came 
and  no  Isaac  they  was  both  leaning  out  of  the  winder 
with  blankets  over  their  shoulders  looking  up  the 
road.  By  eleven  o'clock  Peter  was  in  very  low  spirits 
and  Ginger  was  so  mad  'e  was  afraid  to  speak  to  'im. 

They  spent  the  rest  o'  that  day  'anging  out  of  the 
winder,  but  it  was  not  till  ha'-past  four  in  the  after- 
noon that  Isaac,  still  wearing  Peter's  clothes  and 
carrying  a  couple  of  large  green  plants  under  'is 
arm,  turned  into  the  road,  and  from  the  way  'e  was 
smiling  they  thought  it  must  be  all  right. 

"Wot  'ave  you  been  such  a  long  time  for?"  ses 
Ginger,  in  a  low,  fierce  voice,  as  Isaac  stopped  un- 
derneath the  winder  and  nodded  up  to  'em. 

"I  met  a  old  friend,"  ses  Isaac. 

"Met  a  old  friend?"  ses  Ginger,  in  a  passion. 
"Wot  d'ye  mean,  wasting  time  like  that  while  we 
was  sitting  up  'ere  waiting  and  starving?" 

"I  'adn't  seen  'im  for  years,"  ses  Isaac,  "and  time 
slipped  away  afore  I  noticed  it." 

"I  dessay,"  ses  Ginger,  in  a  bitter  voice.  "Well, 
is  the  money  all  right?" 

"I  don't  know,"  ses  Isaac;  "I  ain't  got  the 
clothes." 

21 


The  Money-Box 


"Wot?"  ses  Ginger,  nearly  falling  out  of  the  win- 
der. "Well,  wot  'ave  you  done  with  mine,  then? 
Where  are  they?  Come  upstairs." 

"I  won't  come  upstairs,  Ginger,"  ses  Isaac,  "be- 
cause I'm  not  quite  sure  whether  I've  done  right. 
But  I'm  not  used  to  going  into  pawnshops,  and  I 
walked  about  trying  to  make  up  my  mind  to  go  in 
and  couldn't." 

"Well,  wot  did  you  do  then?"  ses  Ginger,  'ardly 
able  to  contain  hisself. 

"While  I  was  trying  to  make  up  my  mind,"  ses 
old  Isaac,  "!  see  a  man  with  a  barrer  of  lovely  plants. 
*E  wasn't  asking  money  for  'em,  only  old  clothes." 

"Old  clothes?"  ses  Ginger,  in  a  voice  as  if  'e  was 
being  suffocated. 

"I  thought  they'd  be  a  bit  o'  green  for  you  to  look 
at,"  ses  the  old  nan,  'olding  the  plants  up;  "there's 
no  knowing  'ow  long  you'll  be  up  there.  The  big 
one  is  yours,  Ginger,  and  the  other  is  for  Peter." 

"  'Ave  you  gone  mad,  Isaac?"  ses  Peter,  in  a 
trembling  voice,  arter  Ginger  'ad  tried  to  speak  and 
couldn't. 

Isaac  shook  'is  'ead  and  smiled  up  at  'em,  and 
then,  arter  telling  Peter  to  put  Ginger's  blanket  a 
little  more  round  'is  shoulders,  for  fear  'e  should 
catch  cold,  'e  said  'e'd  ask  the  landlady  to  send  'em 
up  some  bread  and  butter  and  a  cup  o'  tea. 

They  'card  'im  talking  to  the  landlady  at  the  door, 

22 


The  Money-Box 

and  then  'e  went  off  in  a  hurry  without  looking  be- 
hind 'im,  and  the  landlady  walked  up  and  down  on 


•'Old  Isaac  kept  'em  there  for  three  dayi." 

the  other  side  of  the  road  with  'er  apron  stuffed  in  'er 
mouth,  pretending  to  be  looking  at  'er  chimney-pots. 

23 


The  Money-Box 

Isaac  didn't  turn  up  at  all  that  night,  and  by  next 
morning  those  two  unfortunate  men  see  'ow  they'd 
been  done.  It  was  quite  plain  to  them  that  Isaac 
'ad  been  deceiving  them,  and  Peter  was  pretty  cer- 
tain that  'e  took  the  money  out  of  the  bed  while  'e 
was  fussing  about  making  it.  Old  Isaac  kept  'em 
there  for  three  days,  sending  'em  in  their  clothes  bit 
by  bit  and  two  shillings  a  day  to  live  on;  but  they 
didn't  set  eyes  on  '5m  agin  until  they  all  signed  on 
aboard  the  Planet,  and  they  didn't  set  eyes  on  their 
money  until  they  was  two  miles  below  Gravesend. 


24 


THE    CASTAWAY 


THE    CASTAWAY 

MRS.  JOHN  BOXER  stood  at  the  door  of 
the  shop  with  her  hands  clasped  on  her 
apron.  The  short  day  had  drawn  to  a 
close,  and  the  lamps  in  the  narrow  little  thorough- 
fares of  Shinglesea  were  already  lit.  For  a  time  she 
stood  listening  to  the  regular  beat  of  the  sea  on  the 
beach  some  half-mile  distant,  and  then  with  a  slight 
shiver  stepped  back  into  the  shop  and  closed  the 
door. 

The  little  shop  with  its  wide-mouthed  bottles  of 
sweets  was  one  of  her  earliest  memories.  Until  her 
marriage  she  had  known  no  other  home,  and  when 
her  husband  was  lost  with  the  North  Star  some 
three  years  before,  she  gave  up  her  home  in  Poplar 
and  returned  to  assist  her  mother  in  the  little  shop. 

In  a  restless  mood  she  took  up  a  piece  of  needle- 
work, and  a  minute  or  two  later  put  it  down  again. 
A  glance  through  the  glass  of  the  door  leading  into 
the  small  parlour  revealed  Mrs.  Gimpson,  with  a  red 
shawl  round  her  shoulders,  asleep  in  her  easy-chair. 

Mrs.  Boxer  turned  at  the  clang  of  the  shop  bell, 
and  then,  with  a  wild  cry,  stood  gazing  at  the  figure 

27 


The  Castaway 


of  a  man  standing  in  the  door-way.  He  was  short 
and  bearded,  with  oddly  shaped  shoulders,  and  a  left 
leg  which  was  not  a  match;  but  the  next  moment 
Mrs.  Boxer  was  in  his  arms  sobbing  and  laughing 
together. 

Mrs.  Gimpson,  whose  nerves  were  still  quivering 
owing  to  the  suddenness  with  which  she  had  been 
awakened,  came  into  the  shop;  Mr.  Boxer  freed  an 
arm,  and  placing  it  round  her  waist  kissed  her  with 
some  affection  on  the  chin. 

"He's  come  back!"  cried  Mrs.  Boxer,  hyster- 
ically. 

"Thank  goodness,"  said  Mrs.  Gimpson,  after  a 
moment's  deliberation. 

"He's  alive!"  cried  Mrs.  Boxer.     "He's  alive !" 

She  half-dragged  and  half-led  him  into  the  small 
parlour,  and  thrusting  him  into  the  easy-chair  lately 
vacated  by  Mrs.  Gimpson  seated  herself  upon  his 
knee,  regardless  in  her  excitement  that  the  rightful 
owner  was  with  elaborate  care  selecting  the  most  un- 
comfortable chair  in  the  room. 

"Fancy  his  coming  back!"  said  Mrs.  Boxer,  wip- 
ing her  eyes.  "How  did  you  escape,  John?  Where 
have  you  been?  Tell  us  all  about  it." 

Mr.  Boxer  sighed.  "It  'ud  be  a  long  story  if  I 
had  the  gift  of  telling  of  it,"  he  said,  slowly,  "but 
I'll  cut  it  short  for  the  present.  When  the  North 
Star  went  down  in  the  South  Pacific  most  o'  the  hands 

28 


The  Castaway 


got  away  in  the  boats,  but  I  was  too  late.  I  got  this, 
crack  on  the  head  with  something  falling  on  it  from 
aloft.  Look  here." 

He  bent  his  head,  and  Mrs.  Boxer,  separating  the 
stubble  with  her  fingers,  uttered  an  exclamation  of 
pity  and  alarm  at  the  extent  of  the  scar;  Mrs.  Gimp- 
son,  craning  forward,  uttered  a  sound  which  might 
mean  anything — even  pity. 

"When  I  come  to  my  senses,"  continued  Mr» 
Boxer,  "the  ship  was  sinking,  and  I  just  got  to  my 
feet  when  she  went  down  and  took  me  with  her.. 
How  I  escaped  I  don't  know.  I  seemed  to  be  chok- 
ing and  fighting  for  my  breath  for  years,  and  then: 
I  found  myself  floating  on  the  sea  and  clinging  to  a 
grating.  I  clung  to  it  all  night,  and  next  day  I  wa& 
picked  up  by  a  native  who  was  paddling  about  in  a 
canoe,  and  taken  ashore  to  an  island,  where  I  lived' 
for  over  two  years.  It  was  right  out  o'  the  way  o' 
craft,  but  at  last  I  was  picked  up  by  a  trading  schoon- 
er named  the  Pearl,  belonging  to  Sydney,  and  taken 
there.  At  Sydney  I  shipped  aboard  the  Marston 
Towers,  a  steamer,  and  landed  at  the  Albert  Docks 
this  morning." 

"Poor  John,"  said  his  wife,  holding  on  to  his  arrru 
"How  you  must  have  suffered!" 

"I  did,"  said  Mr.  Boxer.  "Mother  got  a  cold?" 
he  inquired,  eying  that  lady. 

"No,  I  ain't,"  said  Mrs.  Gimpson,  answering  for 

29 


The  Castaway 


herself.  "Why  didn't  you  write  when  you  got  to 
Sydney?" 

"Didn't  know  where  to  write  to,"  replied  Mr. 
Boxer,  staring.  "I  didn't  know  where  Mary  had 
gone  to." 

"You  might  ha'  wrote  here,"  said  Mrs.  Gimpson. 

"Didn't  think  of  it  at  the  time,"  said  Mr.  Boxer. 
"One  thing  is,  I  was  very  busy  at  Sydney,  looking 
for  a  ship.  However,  I'm  'ere  now." 

"I  always  felt  you'd  turn  up  some  day,"  said  Mrs. 
Gimpson.  "1  felt  certain  of  it  in  my  own  mind. 
Mary  made  sure  you  was  dead,  but  I  said  'no,  I 
knew  better.'  " 

There  was  something  in  Mrs.  Gimpson's  manner 
of  saying  this  that  impressed  her  listeners  unfavour- 
ably. The  impression  was  deepened  when,  after  a 
short,  dry  laugh  a  propos  of  nothing,  she  sniffed 
again — three  times. 

"Well,  you  turned  out  to  be  right,"  said  Mr. 
Boxer,  shortly. 

"I  gin' rally  am,"  was  the  reply;  "there's  very 
few  people  can  take  me  in." 

She  sniffed  again. 

"Were  the  natives  kind  to  you?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Boxer,  hastily,  as  she  turned  to  her  husband. 

"Very  kind,"  said  the  latter.  "Ah!  you  ought 
to  have  seen  that  island.  Beautiful  yellow  sands 
and  palm-trees;  cocoa-nuts  to  be  'ad  for  the  picking, 

30 


The  Castaway 


and  nothing  to  do  all  day  but  lay  about  in  the  sun 
and  swim  in  the  sea." 

"Any  public-'ouses  there?"  inquired  Mrs.  Gimp- 


son. 

(4 


Cert'nly  not,"  said  her  son-in-law.  "This  was 
an  island — one  o'  the  little  islands  in  the  South  Pa- 
cific Ocean." 

"What  did  you  say  the  name  o'  the  schooner 
was?"  inquired  Mrs.  Gimpson. 

"Pearl,"  replied  Mr.  Boxer,  with  the  air  of  a  re- 
sentful witness  under  cross-examination. 

"And  what  was  the  name  o'  the  captin?"  said 
Mrs.  Gimpson. 

"Thomas — Henery — Walter — Smith,"  said  Mr. 
Boxer,  with  somewhat  unpleasant  emphasis. 

"An'  the  mate's  name?" 

"John  Brown,"  was  the  reply. 

"Common  names,"  commented  Mrs.  Gimpson, 
"very  common.  But  I  knew  you'd  come  back  all 
right — /  never  'ad  no  alarm.  'He's  safe  and  happy, 
my  dear,'  I  says.  'He'll  come  back  all  in  his  own 
good  time.'  ' 

"What  d'you  mean  by  that?"  demanded  the 
sensitive  Mr.  Boxer.  "I  come  back  as  soon  as  I 
could." 

"You  know  you  were  anxious,  mother,"  interposed 
her  daughter.  "Why,  you  insisted  upon  our  going 
to  see  old  Mr.  Silver  about  it." 


The  Castaway 


"Ah !  but  I  wasn't  uneasy  or  anxious  afterwards," 
said  Mrs.  Gimpson,  compressing  her  lips. 

"Who's  old  Mr.  Silver,  and  what  should  he  know 
about  it?"  inquired  Mr.  Boxer. 

"He's  a  fortune-teller,"  replied  his  wife. 

"Reads  the  stars,"  said  his  mother-in-law. 

Mr.  Boxer  laughed — a  good  ringing  laugh. 
""What  did  he  tell  you?"  he  inquired. 

"Nothing,"  said  his  wife,  hastily. 

"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Boxer,  waggishly,  "that  was  wise 
of  'im.  Most  of  us  could  tell  fortunes  that  way." 

"That's  wrong,"  said  Mrs.  Gimpson  to  her  daugh- 
ter, sharply.  "Right's  right  any  day,  and  truth's 
truth.  He  said  that  he  knew  all  about  John  and 
what  he'd  been  doing,  but  he  wouldn't  tell  us  for 
fear  of  'urting  our  feelings  and  making  mischief." 

"Here,  look  'ere,"  said  Mr.  Boxer,  starting  up; 
"I've  'ad  about  enough  o'  this.  Why  don't  you 
speak  out  what  you  mean?  I'll  mischief  'im,  the  old 
humbug.  Old  rascal." 

"Never  mind,  John,"  said  his  wife,  laying  her 
hand  upon  his  arm.  "Here  you  are  safe  and  sound, 
and  as  for  old  Mr.  Silver,  there's  a  lot  o'  people 
don't  believe  in  him." 

"Ah!  they  don't  want  to,"  said  Mrs.  Gimpson, 
obstinately.  "But  don't  forget  that  he  foretold  my 
cough  last  winter." 

"Well,  look  'ere,"  said  Mr.  Boxer,  twisting  his 

32 


The  Castaway 


short,  blunt  nose  into  as  near  an  imitation  of  a  sneer 
as  he  could  manage,  "I've  told  you  my  story  and  I've 
got  witnesses  to  prove  it.  You  can  write  to  the 
master  of  the  Marston  Towers  if  you  like,  and  other 


"  'Well,  look  'ere,'  said  Mr.  Boxer,  'I've  told  you  my  story  and  I*TC  got 
witnesses  to  prove  it.*  " 

people  besides.  Very  well,  then;  let's  go  and  see 
your  precious  old  fortune-teller.  You  needn't  say 
who  I  am;  say  I'm  a  friend,  and  tell  'im  never  to 
mind  about  making  mischief,  but  to  say  right  out 

33 


The  Castaway 


where  I  am  and  what  I've  been  doing  all  this  time. 
I  have  my  'opes  it'll  cure  you  of  your  superstitious- 
ness." 

"We'll  go  round  after  we've  shut  up,  mother," 
said  Mrs.  Boxer.  "We'll  have  a  bit  o'  supper  first 
and  then  start  early." 

Mrs.  Gimpson  hesitated.  It  is  never  pleasant  to 
submit  one's  superstitions  to  the  tests  of  the  unbe- 
lieving, but  after  the  attitude  she  had  taken  up  she 
was  extremely  loath  to  allow  her  son-in-law  a  tri- 
umph. 

"Never  mind,  we'll  say  no  more  about  it,"  she 
said,  primly,  "but  I  'ave  my  own  ideas." 

"I  dessay,"  said  Mr.  Boxer;  "but  you're  afraid 
for  us  to  go  to  your  old  fortune-teller.  It  would 
be  too  much  of  a  show-up  for  'im." 

"It's  no  good  your  trying  to  aggravate  me,  John 
Boxer,  because  you  can't  do  it,"  said  Mrs.  Gimpson, 
in  a  voice  trembling  with  passion. 

"O'  course,  if  people  like  being  deceived  they 
must  be,"  said  Mr.  Boxer;  "we've  all  got  to  live, 
and  if  we'd  all  got  our  common  sense  fortune-tellers 
couldn't.  Does  he  tell  fortunes  by  tea-leaves  or  by 
the  colour  of  your  eyes?" 

"Laugh  away,  John  Boxer,"  said  Mrs.  Gimpson, 
icily;  "but  I  shouldn't  have  been  alive  now  if  it 
hadn't  ha'  been  for  Mr.  Silver's  warnings." 

"Mother  stayed  in  bed  for  the  first  ten  days  in 

34 


'he  Castaway 


July,"  explained  Mrs.  Boxer,  "to  avoid  being  bit 
by  a  mad  dog." 

"Tehee — tehee — tehee,"  said  the  hapless  Mr. 
Boxer,  putting  his  hand  over  his  mouth  and  making 
noble  efforts  to  restrain  himself;  "tehee — tch " 

"I  s'pose  you'd  ha'  laughed  more  if  I  'ad  been 
bit?"  said  the  glaring  Mrs.  Gimpson. 

"Well,  who  did  the  dog  bite  after  all?"  inquired 
Mr.  Boxer,  recovering. 

"You  don't  understand,"  replied  Mrs.  Gimpson, 
pityingly;  "me  being  safe  up  in  bed  and  the  door 
locked,  there  was  no  mad  dog.  There  was  no  use 
for  it." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Boxer,  "me  and  Mary's  going 
round  to  see  that  old  deceiver  after  supper,  whether 
you  come  or  not.  Mary  shall  tell  'im  I'm  a  friend, 
and  ask  him  to  tell  her  everything  about  'er  husband. 
Nobody  knows  me  here,  and  Mary  and  me'll  be  af- 
fectionate like,  and  give  'im  to  understand  we  want 
to  marry.  Then  he  won't  mind  making  mischief." 

"You'd  better  leave  well  alone,"  said  Mrs.  Gimp- 
son. 

Mr.  Boxer  shook  his.  head.  "I  was  always  one 
for  a  bit  o1  fun,"  he  said,  slowly.  "I  want  to  see 
his  face  when  he  finds  out  who  I  am." 

Mrs.  Gimpson  made  no  reply;  she  was  looking 
round  for  the  market-basket,  and  having  found  it 
she  left  the  reunited  couple  to  keep  house  while  she 

35 


The  Castaway 

-went  out  to  obtain  a  supper  which  should,  in  her 
daughter's  eyes,  be  worthy  of  the  occasion. 

She  went  to  the  High  Street  first  and  made  her 
purchases,  and  was  on  the  way  back  again  when,  in 
response  to  a  sudden  impulse,  as  she  passed  the  end 
of  Crowner's  Alley,  she  turned  into  that  small  by- 
way and  knocked  at  the  astrologer's  door. 

A  slow,  dragging  footstep  was  heard  approaching 
in  reply  to  the  summons,  and  the  astrologer,  recog- 
nising his  visitor  as  one  of  his  most  faithful  and 
credulous  clients,  invited  her  to  step  inside.  Mrs. 
Gimpson  complied,  and,  taking  a  chair,  gazed  at  the 
venerable  white  beard  and  small,  red-rimmed  eyes 
of  her  host  in  some  perplexity  as  to  how  to  begin. 

"My  daughter's  coming  round  to  see  you  present- 
ly," she  said,  at  last. 

The  astrologer  nodded. 

"She — she  wants  to  ask  you  about  'er  husband," 
faltered  Mrs.  Gimpson;  "she's  going  to  bring  a 
friend  with  her — a  man  who  doesn't  believe  in  your 
knowledge.  He — he  knows  all  about  my  daughter's 
husband,  and  he  wants  to  see  what  you  say  you  know 
about  him." 

The  old  man  put  on  a  pair  of  huge  horn  specta- 
cles and  eyed  her  carefully. 

"You've  got  something  on  your  mind,"  he  said, 
at  last;  "you'd  better  tell  me  everything." 

Mrs.  Gimpson  shook  her  head. 
36 


The  Castaway 

"There's  some  danger  hanging  over  you,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Silver,  in  a  low,  thrilling  voice;  "some 
danger  in  connection  with  your  son-in-law.  There" — 


"There  is  something  forming  over  you.* 

37 


The  Castaway 


he  waved  a  lean,  shrivelled  hand  backward  and  for- 
ward as  though  dispelling  a  fog,  and  peered  into 
distance — "there  is  something  forming  over  you. 
You — or  somebody — are  hiding  something  from 
me." 

Mrs.  Gimpson,  aghast  at  such  omniscience,  sank 
backward  in  her  chair. 

"Speak,"  said  the  old  man,  gently;  "there  is  no 
reason  why  you  should  be  sacrificed  for  others." 

Mrs.  Gimpson  was  of  the  same  opinion,  and  in 
some  haste  she  reeled  off  the  events  of  the  evening. 
.  She  had  a  good  memory,  and  no  detail  was  lost. 

"Strange,  strange,"  said  the  venerable  Mr.  Sil- 
ver, when  he  had  finished.  "He  is  an  ingenious 
man." 

"Isn't  it  true?"  inquired  his  listener.  "He  says 
he  can  prove  it.  And  he  is  going  to  find  out  what 
you  meant  by  saying  you  were  afraid  of  making  mis- 
chief." 

"He  can  prove  some  of  it,"  said  the  old  man,  his 
eyes  snapping  spitefully.  "I  can  guarantee  that." 

"But  it  wouldn't  have  made  mischief  if  you  had 
told  us  that,"  ventured  Mrs.  Gimpson.  "A  man 
can't  help  being  cast  away." 

"True,"  said  the  astrologer,  slowly;  "true.  But 
let  them  come  and  question  me;  and  whatever  you 
do,  for  your  own  sake  don't  let  a  soul  know  that 
you  have  been  here.  If  you  do,  the  danger  to  your- 

38 


The  Castaway 

self  will  be  so  terrible  that  even  /  may  be  unable  to 
help  you." 

Mrs.  Gimpson  shivered,  and  more  than  ever  im- 
pressed by  his  marvellous  powers  made  her  way  slow- 
ly home,  where  she  found  the  unconscious  Mr.  Boxer 
relating  his  adventures  again  with  much  gusto  to  a 
married  couple  from  next  door. 

"It's  a  wonder  he's  alive,"  said  Mr.  Jem  Thomp- 
son, looking  up  as  the  old  woman  entered  the  room; 
"it  sounds  like  a  story-book.  Show  us  that  cut  on 
your  head  again,  mate." 

The  obliging  Mr.  Boxer  complied. 

"We're  going  on  with  'em  after  they've  'ad  sup- 
per," continued  Mr.  Thompson,  as  he  and  his  wife 
rose  to  depart.  "It'll  be  a  fair  treat  to  me  to  see 
old  Silver  bowled  out." 

Mrs.  Gimpson  sniffed  and  eyed  his  retreating  fig- 
ure disparagingly;  Mrs.  Boxer,  prompted  by  her 
husband,  began  to  set  the  table  for  supper. 

It  was  a  lengthy  meal,  owing  principally  to  Mr. 
Boxer,  but  it  was  over  at  last,  and  after  that  gentle- 
man had  assisted  in  shutting  up  the  shop  they  joined 
the  Thompsons,  who  were  waiting  outside,  and  set 
off  for  Crowner's  Alley.  The  way  was  enlivened 
by  Mr.  Boxer,  who  had  thrills  of  horror  every  ten 
yards  at  the  idea  of  the  supernatural  things  he  was 
about  to  witness,  and  by  Mr.  Thompson,  who,  not 
to  be  outdone,  persisted  in  standing  stock-still  at  fre- 

39 


The  Castaway 


quent  intervals  until  he  had  received  the  assurances 
of  his  giggling  better-half  that  he  would  not  be  made 
to  vanish  in  a  cloud  of  smoke. 

By  the  time  they  reached  Mr.  Silver's  abode  the 
party  had  regained  its  decorum,  and,  except  for  a 
tremendous  shudder  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Boxer  as  his 
gaze  fell  on  a  couple  of  skulls  which  decorated  the 
magician's  table,  their  behaviour  left  nothing  to  be 
desired.  Mrs.  Gimpson,  in  a  few  awkward  words, 
announced  the  occasion  of  their  visit.  Mr.  Boxer  she 
introduced  as  a  friend  of  the  family  from  London. 

"I  will  do  what  I  can,"  said  the  old  man,  slowly, 
as  his  visitors  seated  themselves,  ubut  I  can  only  tell 
you  what  I  see.  If  I  do  not  see  all,  or  see  clearly, 
it  cannot  be  helped." 

Mr.  Boxer  winked  at  Mr.  Thompson,  and  re- 
ceived an  understanding  pinch  in  return;  Mrs. 
Thompson  in  a  hot  whisper  told  them  to  behave 
themselves. 

The  mystic  preparations  were  soon  complete.  A 
little  cloud  of  smoke,  through  which  the  fierce  red 
eyes  of  the  astrologer  peered  keenly  at  Mr.  Boxer, 
rose  from  the  table.  Then  he  poured  various  liquids 
into  a  small  china  bowl  and,  holding  up  his  hand  to 
command  silence,  gazed  steadfastly  into  it.  "I  see 
pictures,"  he  announced,  in  a  deep  voice.  "The  docks 
of  a  great  city;  London.  I  see  an  ill-shaped  man 
with  a  bent  left  leg  standing  on  the  deck  of  a  ship.'* 

40 


The  Castaway 

Mr.  Thompson,  his  eyes  wide  open  with  surprise, 
jerked  Mr.  Boxer  in  the  ribs,  but  Mr.  Boxer,  whose 
figure  was  a  sore  point  with  him,  made  no  response. 

"The  ship  leaves  the  docks,"  continued  Mr.  Sil- 
ver, still  peering  into  the  bowl.  "As  she  passes 
through  the  entrance  her  stern  comes  into  view  with 
the  name  painted  on  it.  The — the — the " 

"Look  agin,  old  chap,"  growled  Mr.  Boxer,  in 
an  undertone. 

"The  North  Star,"  said  the  astrologer.  "The  ill- 
shaped  man  is  still  standing  on  the  fore-part  of  the 
ship;  I  do  not  know  his  name  or  who  he  is.  He 
takes  the  portrait  of  a  beautiful  young  woman  from 
his  pocket  and  gazes  at  it  earnestly." 

Mrs.  Boxer,  who  had  no  illusions  on  the  subject 
of  her  personal  appearance,  sat  up  as  though  she  had 
been  stung;  Mr.  Thompson,  who  was  about  to  nudge 
Mr.  Boxer  in  the  ribs  again,  thought  better  of  it  and 
assumed  an  air  of  uncompromising  virtue. 

"The  picture  disappears,"  said  Mr.  Silver.  "Ah! 
I  see;  I  see.  A  ship  in  a  gale  at  sea.  It  is  the 
North  Star;  it  is  sinking.  The  ill-shaped  man  sheds 
tears  and  loses  his  head.  I  cannot  discover  the  name 
of  this  man." 

Mr.  Boxer,  who  had  been  several  times  on  the 
point  of  interrupting,  cleared  his  throat  and  endeav- 
oured to  look  unconcerned. 

"The   ship   sinks,"    continued  the   astrologer,    in 

41 


The  Castaway 

thrilling  tones.  "Ah I  what  is  this?  a  piece  of  wreck- 
age with  a  monkey  clinging  to  it?  No,  no-o.  The 
ill-shaped  man  again.  Dear  me!" 


"  Ah  !  what  is  this  ?  a  piece  of  wreckage  with  a  monkey  clinging  to  it  ?  " 

His  listeners  sat  spellbound.  Only  the  laboured 
and  intense  breathing  of  Mr.  Boxer  broke  the  si- 
lence. 

42 


The  Castaway 

"He  is  alone  on  the  boundless  sea,"  pursued  the 
seer;  "night  falls.  Day  breaks,  and  a  canoe  pro- 
pelled by  a  slender  and  pretty  but  dusky  maiden  ap- 
proaches the  castaway.  She  assists  him  into  the  ca- 
noe and  his  head  sinks  on  her  lap,  as  with  vigorous 
strokes  of  her  paddle  she  propels  the  canoe  toward 
a  small  island  fringed  with  palm  trees." 

"Here,  look  'ere — "  began  the  overwrought  Mr. 
Boxer. 

"H'sh,  h'shf"  ejaculated  the  keenly  interested  Mr. 
Thompson.  "W'y  don't  you  keep  quiet?" 

"The  picture  fades,"  continued  the  old  man.  "I 
see  another :  a  native  wedding.  It  is  the  dusky  maid- 
en and  the  man  she  rescued.  Ah !  the  wedding  is 
interrupted;  a  young  man,  a  native,  breaks  into  the 
group.  He  has  a  long  knife  in  his  hand.  He  springs 
upon  the  ill-shaped  man  and  wounds  him  in  the 
head." 

Involuntarily  Mr.  Boxer's  hand  went  up  to  his 
honourable  scar,  and  the  heads  of  the  others  swung 
round  to  gaze  at  it.  Mrs.  Boxer's  face  was  terrible 
in  its  expression,  but  Mrs.  Gimpson's  bore  the  look 
of  sad  and  patient  triumph  of  one  who  knew  men 
and  could  not  be  surprised  at  anything  they  do. 

"The  scene  vanishes,"  resumed  the  monotonous 
voice,  "and  another  one  forms.  The  same  man 
stands  on  the  deck  of  a  small  ship.  The  name  on 
the  stern  is  the  Peer — no,  Paris — no,  no,  no,  Pearl. 

43 


The  Castaway 


It  fades  from  the  shore  where  the  dusky  maiden 
stands  .with  hands  stretched  out  imploringly.  The 
ill-shaped  man  smiles  and  takes  the  portrait  of  the 
young  and  beautiful  girl  from  his  pocket." 

"Look  'ere,"  said  the  infuriated  Mr.  Boxer,  "I 
think  we've  'ad  about  enough  of  this  rubbish.  I  have 
— more  than  enough." 

"I  don't  wonder  at  it,"  said  his  wife,  trembling 
furiously.  "You  can  go  if  you  like.  I'm  going  to 
stay  and  hear  all  that  there  is  to  hear." 

"You  sit  quiet,"  urged  the  intensely  interested  Mr. 
Thompson.  "He  ain't  said  it's  you.  There's  more 
than  one  misshaped  man  in  the  world,  I  s'pose?" 

"I  see  an  ocean  liner,"  said  the  seer,  who  had  ap- 
peared to  be  in  a  trance  state  during  this  colloquy. 
"She  is  sailing  for  England  from  Australia.  I  see 
the  name  distinctly :  the  Marston  Towers.  The  same 
man  is  on  board  of  her.  The  ship  arrives  at  Lon- 
don. The  scene  closes;  another  one  forms.  The  ill- 
shaped  man  is  sitting  with  a  woman  with  a  beautiful 
face — not  the  same  as  the  photograph." 

"What  they  can  see  in  him  I  can't  think,"  mut- 
tered Mr.  Thompson,  in  an  envious  whisper.  "He's 
a  perfick  terror,  and  to  look  at  him " 

"They  sit  hand  in  hand,"  continued  the  astrolo- 
ger, raising  his  voice.  "She  smiles  up  at  him  and 
gently  strokes  his  head;  he " 

A  loud  smack  rang  through  the  room  and  startled 

44 


The  Castaway 

the  entire  company;  Mrs.  Boxer,  unable  to  contain 
herself  any  longer,  had,  so  far  from  profiting  by  the 
example,  gone  to  the  other  extreme  and  slapped  her 
husband's  head  with  hearty  good-will.  Mr.  Boxer 
sprang  raging  to  his  feet,  and  in  the  confusion  which 
ensued  the  fortune-teller,  to  the  great  regret  of  Mr. 
Thompson,  upset  the  contents  of  the  magic  bowl. 

"I  can  see  no  more,"  he  said,  sinking  hastily  into 
his  chair  behind  the  table  as  Mr.  Boxer  advanced 
upon  him. 

Mrs.  Gimpson  pushed  her  son-in-law  aside,  and 
laying  a  modest  fee  upon  the  table  took  her  daugh- 
ter's arm  and  led  her  out.  The  Thompsons  fol- 
lowed, and  Mr.  Boxer,  after  an  irresolute  glance  in 
the  direction  of  the  ingenuous  Mr.  Silver,  made  his 
way  after  them  and  fell  into  the  rear.  The  people 
in  front  walked  on  for  some  time  in  silence,  and  then 
the  voice  of  the  greatly  impressed  Mrs.  Thompson 
was  heard,  to  the  effect  that  if  there  were  only  more 
fortune-tellers  in  the  world  there  would  be  a  lot  more 
better  men. 

Mr.  Boxer  trotted  up  to  his  wife's  side.  "Look 
here,  Mary,"  he  began. 

"Don't  you  speak  to  me,"  said  his  wife,  drawing 
closer  to  her  mother,  "because  I  won't  answer  you." 

Mr.  Boxer  laughed,  bitterly.  "This  is  a  nice 
home-coming,"  he  remarked. 

He  fell  to  the  rear  again  and  walked  along  raging, 

45 


The  Castaway 

his  temper  by  no  means  being  improved  by  observing 
that  Mrs.  Thompson,  doubtless  with  a  firm  belief 
in  the  saying  that  "Evil  communications  corrupt 
good  manners,"  kept  a  tight  hold  of  her  husband's 
arm.  His  position  as  an  outcast  was  clearly  defined, 
and  he  ground  his  teeth  with  rage  as  he  observed 
the  virtuous  uprightness  of  Mrs.  Gimpson's  back. 
By  the  time  they  reached  home  he  was  in  a  spirit 
of  mad  recklessness  far  in  advance  of  the  character 
given  him  by  the  astrologer. 

His  wife  gazed  at  him  with  a  look  of  such  strong 
interrogation  as  he  was  about  to  follow  her  into  the 
house  that  he  paused  with  his  foot  on  the  step  and 
eyed  her  dumbly. 

"Have  you  left  anything  inside  that  you  want?" 
she  inquired. 

Mr.  Boxer  shook  his  head.  "I  only  wanted  to 
come  in  and  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,"  he  said,  in 
a  curious  voice;  "then  I'll  go." 

Mrs.  Gimpson  stood  aside  to  let  him  pass,  and 
Mr.  Thompson,  not  to  be  denied,  followed  close 
behind  with  his  faintly  protesting  wife.  They  sat 
down  in  a  row  against  the  wall,  and  Mr.  Boxer,  sit- 
ting opposite  in  a  hang-dog  fashion,  eyed  them  with 
scornful  wrath. 

"Well?"  said  Mrs.  Boxer,  at  last. 

"All  that  he  said  was  quite  true,"  said  her  hus- 
band, defiantly.  "The  only  thing  is,  he  didn't  tell 

46 


The  Castaway 


-  -  Have  you  left  anything  inside  that  you  want  ?  '  she  inquired." 

the  arf  of  it.     Altogether,   I  married  three  dusky 
maidens." 

Everybody  but   Mr.   Thompson   shuddered   with 
horror. 

"Then  I  married  a  white  girl  in  Australia,"  pur- 

47 


The  Castaway 


sued  Mr.  Boxer,  musingly.  "I  wonder  old  Silver 
didn't  see  that  in  the  bowl;  not  arf  a  fortune-teller, 
I  call  'im." 

"What  they  see  in  'im !"  whispered  the  astounded 
Mr.  Thompson  to  his  wife. 

"And  did  you  marry  the  beautiful  girl  in  the  pho- 
tograph?" demanded  Mrs.  Boxer,  in  trembling  ac- 
cents. 

"I  did,"  said  her  husband. 

"Hussy,"  cried  Mrs.  Boxer. 

"I  married  her,"  said  Mr.  Boxer,  considering — 
"I  married  her  at  Camberwell,  in  eighteen  ninety- 
three." 

"Eighteen  ninety-three!"  said  his  wife,  in  a  start- 
led voice.  "But  you  couldn't.  Why,  you  didn't 
marry  me  till  eighteen  ninety-/owr." 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?"  inquired  the 
monster,  calmly. 

Mrs.  Boxer,  pale  as  ashes,  rose  from  her  seat  and 
stood  gazing  at  him  with  horror-struck  eyes,  trying 
in  vnin  to  speak. 

"You  villain!"  cried  Mrs.  Gimpson,  violently. 
"I  always  distrusted  you." 

"I  know  you  did,"  said  Mr.  Boxer,  calmly. 

"You've  been  committing  bigamy,"  cried  Mrs. 
Gimpson. 

"Over  and  over  agin,"  assented  Mr.  Boxer,  cheer- 
fully. "It's  got  to  be  a  'obby  with  me." 

48 


The  Castaway 


"Was  the  first  wife  alive  when  you  married  my 
daughter?"  demanded  Mrs.  Gimpson. 

"Alive?"  said  Mr.  Boxer.  "O'  course  she  was. 
She's  alive  now — bless  her." 


**  '  You  villain  I '  cried  Mrs.  Gimpson,  violently.     '  I  always  distrusted  you.*  *! 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  regarded  with  in- 
tense satisfaction  the  horrified  faces  of  the  group 
in  front. 

"You — you'll   go   to   jail   for  this,"   cried   Mrs. 

49 


The   Castaway 


Gimpson,  breathlessly.     "  What  is  your  first  wife's 
address?" 

"  I  decline  to  answer  that  question,"  said  her  son- 
in-law. 

"What  is  your  first  wife's  address?"  repeated 
Mrs.  Gimpson. 

"Ask  the  fortune-teller,"  said  Mr.  Boxer,  with  an 
aggravating  smile.  "And  then  get  'im  up  in  the  box 
as  a  witness,  little  bowl  and  all.  He  can  tell  you 
more  than  I  can." 

"  I  demand  to  know  her  name  and  address,"  cried 
Mrs.  Gimpson,  putting  a  bony  arm  around  the  waist 
of  the  trembling  Mrs.  Boxer. 

"I  decline  to  give  it,"  said  Mr.  Boxer,  with  great 
relish.  "It  ain't  likely  I'm  going  to  give  myself 
away  like  that;  besides,  it's  agin  the  law  for  a  man 
to  criminate  himself.  You  go  on  and  start  your 
bigamy  case,  and  call  old  red-eyes  as  a  witness." 

Mrs.  Gimpson  gazed  at  him  in  speechless  wrath 
and  then  stooping  down  conversed  in  excited  whis- 
pers with  Mrs.  Thompson.  Mrs.  Boxer  crossed 
over  to  her  husband. 

"  Oh,  John,"  she  wailed,  "  say  it  isn't  true,  say  it 
isn't  true." 

Mr.  Boxer  hesitated.  "  What's  the  good  o*  me 
saying  anything?"  he  said,  doggedly. 

"  It  isn't  true,"  persisted  his  wife.  "Say  it  isn't 
true." 

So 


The  Castaway 


"What  I  told  you  when  I  first  came  in  this  evening 
was  quite  true,"  said  her  husband,  slowly.  "And 
what  I've  just  told  you  is  as  true  as  what  that  lying 
old  fortune-teller  told  you.  You  can  please  yourself 
what  you  believe." 

"I  believe  you,  John,"  said  his  wife,  humbly. 

Mr.  Boxer's  countenance  cleared  and  he  drew  her 
on  to  his  knee. 

"That's  right,"  he  said,  cheerfully.  "So  long  as 
you  believe  in  me  I  don't  care  what  other  people 
think.  And  before  I'm  much  older  I'll  find  out  how 
that  old  rascal  got  to  know  the  names  of  the  ships 
I  was  aboard.  Seems  to  me  somebody's  been  talk- 
ing." 


BLUNDELL'S    IMPROVEMENT 


BLUNDELL'S    IMPROVEMENT 

VENIA  TURNBULLinaquiet, unobtrusive 
fashion  was  enjoying  herself.  The  cool  liv- 
ing-room at  Turnbull's  farm  was  a  delightful 
contrast  to  the  hot  sunshine  without,  and  the  drowsy 
humming  of  bees  floating  in  at  the  open  window 
was  charged  with  hints  of  slumber  to  the  middle- 
aged.  From  her  seat  by  the  window  she  watched 
with  amused  interest  the  efforts  of  her  father — kept 
from  his  Sunday  afternoon  nap  by  the  assiduous  at- 
tentions of  her  two  admirers — to  maintain  his  polite- 
ness. 

"Father  was  so  pleased  to  see  you  both  come  in," 
she  said,  softly;  "  it's  very  dull  for  him  here  of  an 
afternoon  with  only  me." 

"  I  can't  imagine  anybody  being  dull  with  only 
you,"  said  Sergeant  Dick  Daly,  turning  a  bold  brown 
eye  upon  her. 

Mr.  John  Blundell  scowled;  this  was  the  third 
time  the  sergeant  had  said  the  thing  that  he  would 
have  liked  to  say  if  he  had  thought  of  it. 

"  I  don't  mind  being  dull,"  remarked  Mr.  Turn* 
bull,  casually. 

Neither  gentleman  made  any  comment 

55 


Blundell's  Improvement 

"I  like  it,"  pursued  Mr.  Turnbull,  longingly;  "al- 
ways did,  from  a  child." 

The  two  young  men  looked  at  each  other;  then 
they  looked  at  Venia;  the  sergeant  assumed  an  ex- 
pression of  careless  ease,  while  John  Blundell  sat  his 
chair  like  a  human  limpet.  Mr.  Turnbull  almost 
groaned  as  he  remembered  his  tenacity. 

"The  garden's  looking  very  nice,"  he  said,  with  a 
pathetic  glance  round. 

"Beautiful,"  assented  the  sergeant.  "I  saw  it  yes- 
terday." 

"Some  o'  the  roses  on  that  big  bush  have  opened 
a  bit  more  since  then,"  said  the  farmer. 

Sergeant  Daly  expressed  his  gratification,  and  said 
that  he  was  not  surprised.  It  was  only  ten  days  since 
he  had  arrived  in  the  village  on  a  visit  to  a  relative, 
but  in  that  short  space  of  time  he  had,  to  the  great 
discomfort  of  Mr.  Blundell,  made  himself  wonder- 
fully at  home  at  Mr.  Turnbull's.  To  Venia  he  re- 
lated strange  adventures  by  sea  and  land,  and  on 
subjects  of  which  he  was  sure  the  farmer  knew  noth- 
ing he  was  a  perfect  mine  of  information.  He  began 
to  talk  in  low  tones  to  Venia,  and  the  heart  of  Mr. 
Blundell  sank  within  him  as  he  noted  her  interest. 
Their  voices  fell  to  a  gentle  murmur,  and  the  ser- 
geant's sleek,  well-brushed  head  bent  closer  to  that 
of  his  listener.  Relieved  from  his  attentions,  Mr. 
Turnbull  fell  asleep  without  more  ado. 

56 


Blundell's  Improvement 

Blundell  sat  neglected,  the  unwilling  witness  of  a 
flirtation  he  was  powerless  to  prevent.  Considering 
her  limited  opportunities,  Miss  Turnbull  displayed  a 
proficiency  which  astonished  him.  Even  the  sergeant 
was  amazed,  and  suspected  her  of  long  practice. 

"I  wonder  whether  it  is  very  hot  outside?"  she 
said,  at  last,  rising  and  looking  out  of  the  window. 

"Only  pleasantly  warm,"  said  the  sergeant.  "It 
would  be  nice  down  by  the  water." 

"I'm  afraid  of  disturbing  father  by  our  talk," 
said  the  considerate  daughter.  "You  might  tell  him 
we've  gone  for  a  little  stroll  when  he  wakes,"  she 
added,  turning  to  Blundell. 

Mr.  Blundell,  who  had  risen  with  the  idea  of  act- 
ing the  humble  but,  in  his  opinion,  highly  necessary 
part  of  chaperon,  sat  down  again  and  watched  blank- 
ly from  the  window  until  they  were  out  of  sight. 
He  was  half  inclined  to  think  that  the  exigencies  of 
the  case  warranted  him  in  arousing  the  farmer  at 
once. 

It  was  an  hour  later  when  the  farmer  awoke,  to 
find  himself  alone  with  Mr.  Blundell,  a  state  of  af- 
fairs for  which  he  strove  with  some  pertinacity  to 
make  that  aggrieved  gentleman  responsible. 

"Why  didn't  you  go  with  them?"  he  demanded. 

"Because  I  wasn't  asked,"  replied  the  other. 

Mr.  Turnbull  sat  up  in  his  chair  and  eyed  him 
disdainfully.  "For  a  great,  big  chap  like  you  are, 

57 


Blundell's  Improvement 

John  Blundell,"  he  exclaimed,  "it's  surprising  what 
a  little  pluck  you've  got." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  where  I'm  not  wanted,"  re- 
torted Mr.  Blundell. 

"That's  where  you  make  a  mistake,"  said  the 
other,  regarding  him  severely;  "girls  like  a  master- 
ful man,  and,  instead  of  getting  your  own  way, 
you  sit  down  quietly  and  do  as  you're  told,  like  a 
tame — tame ' ' 

"Tame  what?"  inquired  Mr.  Blundell,  resent- 
fully. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  other,  frankly;  "the  tam- 
est thing  you  can  think  of.  There's  Daly  laughing 
in  his  sleeve  at  you,  and  talking  to  Venia  about 
Waterloo  and  the  Crimea  as  though  he'd  been  there. 
I  thought  it  was  pretty  near  settled  between  you." 

"So  did  I,"  said  Mr.  Blundell. 

"You're  a  big  man,  John,"  said  the  other,  "but 
you're  slow.  You're  all  muscle  and  no  head." 

"I  think  of  things  afterward,"  said  Blundell, 
humbly;  "generally  after  I  get  to  bed." 

Mr.  Turnbull  sniffed,  and  took  a  turn  up  and 
down  the  room;  then  he  closed  the  door  and  came 
toward  his  friend  again. 

"I  dare  say  you're  surprised  at  me  being  so  anx- 
ious to  get  rid  of  Venia,"  he  said,  slowly,  "but  the 
fact  is  I'm  thinking  of  marrying  again  myself." 

"You!"  said  the  startled  Mr.  Blundell. 

58 


Blundell's  Improvement 

"Yes,  me,"  said  the  other,  somewhat  sharply. 
"But  she  won't  marry  so  long  as  Venia  is  at  home. 
It's  a  secret,  because  if  Venia  got  to  hear  of  it  she'd 
keep  single  to  prevent  it.  She's  just  that  sort  of 
girl." 

Mr.  Blundell  coughed,  but  did  not  deny  it.  "Who 
is  it?"  he  inquired. 

"Miss  Sippet,"  was  the  reply.  "She  couldn't  hold 
her  own  for  half  an  hour  against  Venia." 

Mr.  Blundell,  a  great  stickler  for  accuracy,  re- 
duced the  time  to  five  minutes. 

"And  now,"  said  the  aggrieved  Mr.  Turnbull, 
"now,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  she's  struck  with  Daly. 
If  she  has  him  it'll  be  years  and  years  before  they 
can  marry.  She  seems  crazy  about  heroes.  She  was 
talking  to  me  the  other  night  about  them.  Not  to 
put  too  fine  a  point  on  it,  she  was  talking  about  you." 

Mr.  Blundell  blushed  with  pleased  surprise. 

"Said  you  were  not  a  hero,"  explained  Mr.  Turn- 
bull.  "Of  course,  I  stuck  up  for  you.  I  said  you'd 
got  too  much  sense  to  go  putting  your  life  into  dan- 
ger. I  said  you  were  a  very  careful  man,  and  I  told 
her  how  particular  you  was  about  damp  sheets. 
Your  housekeeper  told  me." 

"It's  all  nonsense,"  said  Blundell,  with  a  fiery  face. 
"I'll  send  that  old  fool  packing  if  she  can't  keep  her 
tongue  quiet." 

"It's  very  sensible  of  you,  John,"  said  Mr.  Turn- 

59 


Blundell's  Improvement 

bull,  "and  a  sensible  girl  would  appreciate  it.  In- 
stead of  that,  she  only  sniffed  when  I  told  her  how 
careful  you  always  were  to  wear  flannel  next  to  your 
skin.  She  said  she  liked  dare-devils." 

"I  suppose  she  thinks  Daly  is  a  dare-devil,"  said 
the  offended  Mr.  Blundell.  "And  I  wish  people 
wouldn't  talk  about  me  and  my  skin.  Why  can't 
they  mind  their  own  business?" 

Mr.  Turnbull  eyed  him  indignantly,  and  then,  sit- 
ting in  a  very  upright  position,  slowly  filled  his  pipe, 
and  declining  a  proffered  match  rose  and  took  one 
from  the  mantel-piece. 

"I  was  doing  the  best  I  could  for  you,"  he  said, 
staring  hard  at  the  ingrate.  "I  was  trying  to  make 
Venia  see  what  a  careful  husband  you  would  make. 
Miss  Sippet  herself  is  most  particular  about  such 
things — and  Venia  seemed  to  think  something  of  it, 
because  she  asked  me  whether  you  used  a  warming- 
pan." 

Mr.  Blundell  got  up  from  his  chair  and,  without 
going  through  the  formality  of  bidding  his  host  good- 
by,  quitted  the  room  and  closed  the  door  violently 
behind  him.  He  was  red  with  rage,  and  he  brooded 
darkly  as  he  made  his  way  home  on  the  folly  of 
carrying  on  the  traditions  of  a  devoted  mother  with- 
out thinking  for  himself. 

For  the  next  two  or  three  days,  to  Venia's  secret 
concern,  he  failed  to  put  in  an  appearance  at  the 

60 


BlundelPs  Improvement 

farm — a  fact  which  made  flirtation  with  the  sergeant 
a  somewhat  uninteresting  business.  Her  sole  recom- 
pense was  the  dismay  of  her  father,  and  for  his  bene« 


"  She  asked  me  whether  you  used  a  warming-pan." 

fit  she  dwelt  upon  the  advantages  of  the  Army  in  a 
manner  that  would  have  made  the  fortune  of  a  re- 
cruiting-sergeant. 

61 


BlundelPs  Improvement 

"She's  just  crazy  after  the  soldiers,"  he  said  to  Mr. 
Blundell,  whom  he  was  trying  to  spur  on  to  a  desper- 
ate effort.  "I've  been  watching  her  close,  and  I  can 
see  what  it  is  now;  she's  romantic.  You're  too  slow 
and  ordinary  for  her.  She  wants  somebody  more 
dazzling.  She  told  Daly  only  yesterday  afternoon 
that  she  loved  heroes.  Told  it  to  him  to  his  face. 
I  sat  there  and  heard  her.  It's  a  pity  you  ain't  a  hero, 
John." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Blundell;  athen,  if  I  was,  I  ex- 
pect  she'd  like  something  else." 

The  other  shook  his  head.  "If  you  could  only  do 
something  daring,"  he  murmured;  "half-kill  some- 
body, or  save  somebody's  life,  and  let  her  see  you 
do  it.  Couldn't  you  dive  off  the  quay  and  save  some- 
body's life  from  drowning?" 

"Yes,  I  could,"  said  Blundell,  "if  somebody  would 
only  tumble  in." 

"You  might  pretend  that  you  thought  you  saw 
somebody  drowning,"  suggested  Mr.  Turnbull. 

"And  be  laughed  at,"  said  Mr.  Blundell,  who 
knew  his  Venia  by  heart. 

"You  always  seem  to  be  able  to  think  of  objec- 
tions," complained  Mr.  Turnbull;  "I've  noticed  that 
in  you  before." 

"I'd  go  in  fast  enough  if  there  was  anybody 
there,"  said  Blundell.  "I'm  not  much  of  a  swimmer, 

but " 

62 


Blundeirs  Improvement 

"All  the  better,"  interrupted  the  other;  "that 
would  make  it  all  the  more  daring." 

"And  I  don't  much  care  if  I'm  drowned,"  pursued 
the  younger  man,  gloomily. 

Mr.  Turnbull  thrust  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and 
took  a  turn  or  two  up  and  down  the  room.  His 
brows  were  knitted  and  his  lips  pursed.  In  the  pres- 
ence of  this  mental  stress  Mr.  Blundell  preserved  a 
respectful  silence. 

"We'll  all  four  go  for  a  walk  on  the  quay  on  Sun- 
day afternoon,"  said  Mr.  Turnbull,  at  last. 

"On  the  chance?"  inquired  his  staring  friend. 

"On  the  chance,"  assented  the  other;  "it's  just  pos- 
sible Daly  might  fall  in." 

"He  might  if  we  walked  up  and  down  five  million 
times,"  said  Blundell,  unpleasantly. 

"He  might  if  we  walked  up  and  down  three  or 
four  times,"  said  Mr.  Turnbull,  "especially  if  you 
happened  to  stumble." 

"I  never  stumble,"  said  the  matter-of-fact  Mr. 
Blundell.  "I  don't  know  anybody  more  sure-footed 
than  I  am." 

"Or  thick-headed,"  added  the  exasperated  Mr. 
Turnbull. 

Mr.  Blundell  regarded  him  patiently;  he  had  a 
strong  suspicion  that  his  friend  had  been  drinking. 

"Stumbling,"  said  Mr.  Turnbull,  conquering  his 
annoyance  with  an  effort — "stumbling  is  a  thing  that 

63 


BlundelPs  Improvement 

might  happen  to  anybody.  You  trip  your  foot 
against  a  stone  and  lurch  up  against  Daly;  he  tumbles 
overboard,  and  you  off  with  your  jacket  and  dive  in 
off  the  quay  after  him.  He  can't  swim  a  stroke." 

Mr.  Blundell  caught  his  breath  and  gazed  at  him 
in  speechless  amaze. 

"There's  sure  to  be  several  people  on  the  quay  if 
it's  a  fine  afternoon,"  continued  his  instructor. 
"You'll  have  half  Dunchurch  round  you,  praising 
you  and  patting  you  on  the  back — all  in  front  of 
iVenia,  mind  you.  It'll  be  put  in  all  the  papers  and 
you'll  get  a  medal." 

"And  suppose  we  are  both  drowned?"  said  Mr. 
Blundell,  soberly. 

"Drowned?  Fiddlesticks!"  said  Mr.  Turnbull. 
"However,  please  yourself.  If  you're  afraid " 

"I'll  do  it,"  said  Blundell,  decidedly. 

"And  mind,"  said  the  other,  "don't  do  it  as  if  it's 
as  easy  as  kissing  your  fingers ;  be  half-drowned  your- 
self, or  at  least  pretend  to  be.  And  when  you're  on 
the  quay  take  your  time  about  coming  round.  Be 
longer  than  Daly  is;  you  don't  want  him  to  get  all 
the  pity." 

"All  right,"  said  the  other. 

"After  a  time  you  can  open  your  eyes,"  went  on 
his  instructor;  "then,  if  I  were  you,  I  should  say, 
'Good-bye,  Venia,'  and  close  'em  again.  Work  it  up 
affecting,  and  send  messages  to  your  aunts." 

64 


Blundell's  Improvement 

"It  sounds  all  right,"  said  Blundell. 

"It  is  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Turnbull.  "That's  just 
the  bare  idea  I've  given  you.  It's  for  you  to  improve 
upon  it.  You've  got  two  days  to  think  about  it." 

Mr.  Blundell  thanked  him,  and  for  the  next  two 
days  thought  of  little  else.  Being  a  careful  man  he 
made  his  will,  and  it  was  in  a  comparatively  cheerful 
frame  of  mind  that  he  made  his  way  on  Sunday 
afternoon  to  Mr.  Turnbull's. 

The  sergeant  was  already  there  conversing  in  low 
tones  with  Venia  by  the  window,  while  Mr.  Turnbull, 
sitting  opposite  in  an  oaken  armchair,  regarded  him 
with  an  expression  which  would  have  shocked  lago. 

"We  were  just  thinking  of  having  a  blow  down  by 
the  water,"  he  said,  as  Blundell  entered. 

"What!  a  hot  day  like  this?"  said  Venia. 

"I  was  just  thinking  how  beautifully  cool  it  is  in. 
here,"  said  the  sergeant,  who  was  hoping  for  a  repeti- 
tion of  the  previous  Sunday's  performance. 

"It's  cooler  outside,"  said  Mr.  Turnbull,  with  a 
wilful  ignoring  of  facts;  "much  cooler  when  you  get 
used  to  it." 

He  led  the  way  with  Blundell,  and  Venia  and  ths 
sergeant,  keeping  as  much  as  possible  in  the  shade  of 
the  dust-powdered  hedges,  followed.  The  sun  was 
blazing  in  the  sky,  and  scarce  half-a-dozen  people 
were  to  be  seen  on  the  little  curved  quay  which  con- 
stituted the  usual  Sunday  afternoon  promenade.  The 

65 


BlundelPs  Improvement 

water,  a  dozen  feet  below,  lapped  cool  and  green 
against  the  stone  sides. 

At  the  extreme  end  of  the  quay,  underneath  the 
lantern,  they  all  stopped,  ostensibly  to  admire  a  full- 
rigged  ship  sailing  slowly  by  in  the  distance,  but  really 
to  effect  the  change  of  partners  necessary  to  the  after- 
noon's business.  The  change  gave  Mr.  Turnbull 
some  trouble  ere  it  was  effected,  but  he  was  successful 
at  last,  and,  walking  behind  the  two  young  men, 
waited  somewhat  nervously  for  developments. 

Twice  they  paraded  the  length  of  the  quay  and 
nothing  happened.  The  ship  was  still  visible,  and, 
the  sergeant  halting  to  gaze  at  it,  the  company  lost 
their  formation,  and  he  led  the  complaisant  Venia  off 
from  beneath  her  father's  very  nose. 

"You're  a  pretty  manager,  you  are,  John  Blun- 
dell," said  the  incensed  Mr.  Turnbull. 

"I  know  what  I'm  about,"  said  Blundell,  slowly. 

"Well,  why  don't  you  do  it?"  demanded  the  other. 
"I  suppose  you  are  going  to  wait  until  there  are  more 
people  about,  and  then  perhaps  some  of  them  will  see 
you  push  him  over." 

"It  isn't  that,"  said  Blundell,  slowly,  "but  you  told 
me  to  improve  on  your  plan,  you  know,  and  I've  been 
thinking  out  improvements." 

"Well?"  said  the  other. 

"It  doesn't  seem  much  good  saving  Daly,"  said 
Blundell;  "that's  what  I've  been  thinking.  He  would 

66 


Blundell's  Improvement 

be  in  as  much  danger  as  I  should,  and  he'd  get  as 
much  sympathy;  perhaps  more." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  are  backing  out 
of  it?"  demanded  Mr.  Turnbull. 


"  '  Bah  f  you  are  backing  out  of  it,'  said  the  irritated  Mr.  Turnbull." 

"No,"  said  Blundell,  slowly,  "but  it  would  be 
much  better  if  I  saved  somebody  else.  I  don't  want 
Daly  to  be  pitied." 

67 


Blundell's  Improvement 

"Bah !  you  are  backing  out  of  it,"  said  the  irritated 
Mr.  Turnbull.  "You're  afraid  of  a  little  cold  water." 

"No,  I'm  not,"  said  Blundell;  "but  it  would  be 
better  in  every  way  to  save  somebody  else.  She'll  see 
Daly  standing  there  doing  nothing,  while  I  am  strug- 
gling for  my  life.  I've  thought  it  all  out  very  care- 
fully. I  know  I'm  not  quick,  but  I'm  sure,  and  when 
I  make  up  my  mind  to  do  a  thing,  I  do  it.  You  ought 
to  know  that." 

"That's  all  very  well,"  said  the  other;  "but  who 
else  is  there  to  push  in  ?" 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Blundell,  vaguely.  "Don't 
you  worry  about  that;  I  shall  find  somebody." 

Mr.  Turnbull  turned  and  cast  a  speculative  eye 
along  the  quay.  As  a  rule,  he  had  great  confidence 
in  Blundell's  determination,  but  on  this  occasion  he 
had  his  doubts. 

"Well,  it's  a  riddle  to  me,"  he  said,  slowly.  "I 
give  it  up.  It  seems —  Halloa!  Good  heavens,  be 
careful.  You  nearly  had  me  in  then." 

"Did  I?"  said  Blundell,  thickly.   "I'm  very  sorry." 

Mr.  Turnbull,  angry  at  such  carelessness,  accepted 
the  apology  in  a  grudging  spirit  and  trudged  along 
in  silence.  Then  he  started  nervously  as  a  monstrous 
and  unworthy  suspicion  occurred  to  him.  It  was  an 
incredible  thing  to  suppose,  but  at  the  same  time  he 
felt  that  there  was  nothing  like  being  on  the  safe 
side,  and  in  tones  not  quite  free  from  significance  he 

68 


Blundell's  Improvement 

intimated  his  desire  of  changing  places  with  his  awk- 
ward friend. 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Blundell,  soothingly. 

"I  know  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Turnbull,  regarding  him 
fixedly;  "but  I  prefer  this  side.  You  very  near  had 
me  over  just  now." 

"I  staggered,"  said  Mr.  Blundell. 

"Another  inch  and  I  should  have  been  overboard," 
said  Mr.  Turnbull,  with  a  shudder.  "That  would 
have  been  a  nice  how  d'ye  do." 

Mr.  Blundell  coughed  and  looked  seaward.  "Ac- 
cidents will  happen,"  he  murmured. 

They  reached  the  end  of  the  quay  again  and  stood 
talking,  and  when  they  turned  once  more  the  sergeant 
was  surprised  and  gratified  at  the  ease  with  which  he 
bore  off  Venia.  Mr.  Turnbull  and  Blundell  followed 
some  little  way  behind,  and  the  former  gentleman's 
suspicions  were  somewhat  lulled  by  finding  that  his 
friend  made  no  attempt  to  take  the  inside  place.  He 
looked  about  him  with  interest  for  a  likely  victim,  but 
in  vain. 

"What  are  you  looking  at?"  he  demanded,  impa- 
tiently, as  Blundell  suddenly  came  to  a  stop  and  gazed 
curiously  into  the  harbour. 

"Jelly-fish,"  said  the  other,  briefly.  "I  never  saw 
such  a  monster.  It  must  be  a  yard  across." 

Mr.  Turnbull  stopped,  but  could  see  nothing,  and 
even  when  Blundell  pointed  it  out  with  his  finger  he 

69 


Blundell's  Improvement 

had  no  better  success.  He  stepped  forward  a  pace, 
and  his  suspicions  returned  with  renewed  vigour  as  a 
hand  was  laid  caressingly  on  his  shoulder.  The  next 
moment,  with  a  wild  shriek,  he  shot  suddenly  over 
the  edge  and  disappeared.  Venia  and  the  sergeant, 
turning  hastily,  were  just  in  time  to  see  the  fountain 
which  ensued  on  his  immersion. 

"Oh,  save  him!"  cried  Venia. 

The  sergeant  ran  to  the  edge  and  gazed  in  helpless 
dismay  as  Mr.  Turnbull  came  to  the  surface  and  dis- 
appeared again.  At  the  same  moment  Blundell,  who 
had  thrown  off  his  coat,  dived  into  the  harbour  and, 
rising  rapidly  to  the  surface,  caught  the  fast-choking 
Mr.  Turnbuli  by  the  collar. 

"Keep  still,"  he  cried,  sharply,  as  the  farmer  tried 
to  clutch  him;  "keep  still  or  I'll  let  you  go." 

"Help!"  choked  the  farmer,  gazing  up  at  the 
little  knot  of  people  which  had  collected  on  the 
quay. 

A  stout  fisherman  who  had  not  run  for  thirty  years 
came  along  the  edge  of  the  quay  at  a  shambling  trot, 
with  a  coil  of  rope  over  his  arm.  John  Blundell  saw 
him  and,  mindful  of  the  farmer's  warning  about  kiss- 
ing of  fingers,  etc.,  raised  his  disengaged  arm  and 
took  that  frenzied  gentleman  below  the  surface 
again.  By  the  time  they  came  up  he  was  very  glad 
for  his  own  sake  to  catch  the  line  skilfully  thrown  by 
the  old  fisherman  and  be  drawn  gently  to  the  side. 

70 


•*  With  a  wild  shriek  he  shot  suddenly  over  the  edge.' 


Blundell's  Improvement 

"I'll  tow  you  to  the  steps,"  said  the  fisherman; 
"don't  let  go  o'  the  line." 

Mr.  Turnbull  saw  to  that;  he  wound  the  rope 
round  his  wrist  and  began  to  regain  his  presence  of 
mind  as  they  were  drawn  steadily  toward  the  steps. 
Willing  hands  drew  them  out  of  the  water  and  helped 
them  up  on  to  the  quay,  where  Mr.  Turnbull,  sitting 
in  his  own  puddle,  coughed  up  salt  water  and  glared 
ferociously  at  the  inanimate  form  of  Mr.  Blundell. 
Sergeant  Daly  and  another  man  were  rendering  what 
they  piously  believed  to  be  first  aid  to  the  apparently 
drowned,  while  the  stout  fisherman,  with  both  hands 
to  his  mouth,  was  yelling  in  heart-rending  accents  for 
a  barrel. 

"He — he — push — pushed  me  in,"  gasped  the  chok- 
ing Mr.  Turnbull. 

Nobody  paid  any  attention  to  him ;  even  Venia,  see- 
ing that  he  was  safe,  was  on  her  knees  by  the  side  of 
the  unconscious  Blundell. 

"He — he's  shamming,"  bawled  the  neglected  Mr. 
Turnbull. 

"Shame!"  said  somebody,  without  even  looking 
round. 

"He  pushed  me  in,"  repeated  Mr.  Turnbull.  "He 
pushed  me  in." 

"Oh,  father,"  said  Venia,  with  a  scandalised  glance 
at  him,  "how  can  you?" 

"Shame!"  said  the  bystanders,  briefly,  as  they] 
72 


BlundelPs  Improvement 

Watched  anxiously  for  signs  of  returning  life  on  the 
part  of  Mr.  Blundell.  He  lay  still  with  his  eyes 
closed,  but  his  hearing  was  still  acute,  and  the  sounds 
of  a  rapidly  approaching  barrel  trundled  by  a  breath- 
less Samaritan  did  him  more  good  than  anything. 

"Good-bye,  Venia,"  he  said,  in  a  faint  voice; 
"good-bye." 

Miss  Turnbull  sobbed  and  took  his  hand. 

"He's  shamming,"  roared  Mr.  Turnbull,  incensed 
beyond  measure  at  the  faithful  manner  in  which  Blun- 
dell was  carrying  out  his  instructions.  "He  pushed 
me  in." 

There  was  an  angry  murmur  from  the  bystanders. 

"Be  reasonable,  Mr.  Turnbull,"  said  the  sergeant, 
somewhat  sharply. 

"He  nearly  lost  'is  life  over  you,"  said  the  stout 
fisherman.  "As  plucky  a  thing  as  ever  I  see.  If  I 
'adn't  ha'  been  'andy  with  that  there  line  you'd  both 
ha'  been  drownded." 

"Give — my  love — to  everybody,"  said  Blundell, 
faintly.  "Good-bye,  Venia.  Good-bye,  Mr.  Turn- 
bull." 

"Where's  that  barrel?"  demanded  the  stout  fisher- 
man, crisply.  "Going  to  be  all  night  with  it?  Now, 
two  of  you " 

Mr.  Blundell,  with  a  great  effort,  and  assisted  by 
Venia  and  the  sergeant,  sat  up.  He  felt  that  he  had 
made  a  good  impression,  and  had  no  desire  to  spoil  it 

73 


Blun dell's  Improvement 

by  riding  the  barrel.  With  one  exception,  everybody 
was  regarding  him  with  moist-eyed  admiration.  The 
exception's  eyes  were,  perhaps,  the  moistest  of  them 
all,  but  admiration  had  no  place  in  them. 

"You're  all  being  made  fools  of,"  he  said,  getting 
up  and  stamping.  "I  tell  you  he  pushed  me  over- 
board for  the  purpose." 

"Oh,  father!  how  can  you?"  demanded  Venia,  an- 
grily. "He  saved  your  life." 

"He  pushed  me  in,"  repeated  the  farmer.  "Told 
me  to  look  at  a  jelly-fish  and  pushed  me  in." 

"What  for?"  inquired  Sergeant  Daly. 

"Because — "  said  Mr.  Turnbull.  He  looked  at 
the  unconscious  sergeant,  and  the  words  on  his  lips 
died  away  in  an  inarticulate  growl. 

"What  for?"  pursued  the  sergeant,  in  triumph. 
"Be  reasonable,  Mr.  Turnbull.  Where's  the  reason 
in  pushing  you  overboard  and  then  nearly  losing  his 
life  saving  you?  That  would  be  a  fool's  trick.  It 
was  as  fine  a  thing  as  ever  I  saw." 

"What  you  'ad,  Mr.  Turnbull,"  said  the  stout 
fisherman,  tapping  him  on  the  arm,  "was  a  little  touch 
o'  the  sun." 

"What  felt  to  you  like  a  push,"  said  another  man, 
"and  over  you  went." 

"As  easy  as  easy,"  said  a  third. 

"You're  red  in  the  face  now,"  said  the  stout  fisher- 
man, regarding  him  critically,  "and  your  eyes  are 

74 


Blundell's  Improvement 

starting.  You  take  my  advice  and  get  'ome  and  get 
to  bed,  and  the  first  thing  you'll  do  when  you  get  your 
senses  back  will  be  to  go  round  and  thank  Mr.  Blun- 
dell  for  all  Vs  done  for  you." 


"  You  take  my  advice  and  get  'ome  and  get  to  bed." 

Mr.  Turnbull  looked  at  them,  and  the  circle  of  in- 
telligent faces  grew  misty  before  his  angry  eyes.  One 
man,  ignoring  his  sodden  condition,  recommended  a 
wet  handkerchief  tied  round  his  brow. 

"I  don't  want  any  thanks,  Mr.  Turnbull,"  said 

75 


Blundell's  Improvement 

Blundell,  feebly,  as  he  was  assisted  to  his  feet.  "I'd 
do  as  much  for  you  again." 

The  stout  fisherman  patted  him  admiringly  on  the 
back,  and  Mr.  Turnbull  felt  like  a  prophet  beholding 
a  realised  vision  as  the  spectators  clustered  round  Mr. 
Blundell  and  followed  their  friends'  example.  Ten- 
derly but  firmly  they  led  the  hero  in  triumph  up  the 
quay  toward  home,  shouting  out  eulogistic  descrip- 
tions of  his  valour  to  curious  neighbours  as  they 
passed.  Mr.  Turnbull,  churlishly  keeping  his  dis- 
tance in  the  rear  of  the  procession,  received  in  grim 
silence  the  congratulations  of  his  friends. 

The  extraordinary  hallucination  caused  by  the  sun- 
stroke lasted  with  him  for  over  a  week,  but  at  the  end 
of  that  time  his  mind  cleared  and  he  saw  things  in  the 
same  light  as  reasonable  folk.  Venia  was  the  first  to 
congratulate  him  upon  his  recovery;  but  his  extraor- 
dinary behaviour  in  proposing  to  Miss  Sippet  the 
very  day  on  which  she  herself  became  Mrs.  Blundell 
convinced  her  that  his  recovery  was  only  partial. 


BILL'S    LAPSE 


BILL'S    LAPSE 

STRENGTH  and  good-nature — said  the  night- 
watchman,  musingly,  as  he  felt  his  biceps — 
strength  and  good-nature  always  go  together. 
Sometimes  you  find  a  strong  man  who  is  not  good- 
natured,  but  then,  as  everybody  he  comes  in  contack 
with  is,  it  comes  to  the  same  thing. 

The  strongest  and  kindest-'earted  man  I  ever  come 
across  was  a  man  o'  the  name  of  Bill  Burton,  a  ship- 
mate of  Ginger  Dick's.  For  that  matter  'e  was  a 
shipmate  o'  Peter  Russet's  and  old  Sam  Small's  too. 
Not  over  and  above  tall;  just  about  my  height,  his 
arms  was  like  another  man's  legs  for  size,  and  'is  chest 
and  his  back  and  shoulders  might  ha'  been  made  for  a 
giant.  And  with  all  that  he'd  got  a  soft  blue  eye  like 
a  gal's  (blue's  my  favourite  colour  for  gals'  eyes), 
and  a  nice,  soft,  curly  brown  beard.  He  was  an  A.B., 
too,  and  that  showed  'ow  good-natured  he  was,  to 
pick  up  with  firemen. 

He  got  so  fond  of  'em  that  when  they  was  all  paid 
off  from  the  Ocean  King  he  asked  to  be  allowed  to 
join  them  in  taking  a  room  ashore.  It  pleased  every- 
body, four  coming  cheaper  than  three,  and  Bill  being 

79 


Bill's  Lapse 

that  good-tempered  that  Vd  put  up  with  anything, 
and  when  any  of  the  three  quarrelled  he  used  to  act 
the  part  of  peacemaker. 

The  only  thing  about  'im  that  they  didn't  like  was 
that  'e  was  a  teetotaler.  He'd  go  into  public-'ouses 
with  'em,  but  he  wouldn't  drink;  leastways,  that  is  to 
say,  he  wouldn't  drink  beer,  and  Ginger  used  to  say 
that  it  made  'im  feel  uncomfortable  to  see  Bill  put 
away  a  bottle  o'  lemonade  every  time  they  'ad  a  drink. 
One  night  arter  'e  had  'ad  seventeen  bottles  he  could 
'ardly  got  home,  and  Peter  Russet,  who  knew  a  lot 
about  pills  and  such-like,  pointed  out  to  'im  'ow  bad  it 
was  for  his  constitushon.  He  proved  that  the  lemon- 
ade would  eat  away  the  coats  o'  Bill's  stomach,  and 
that  if  'e  kept  on  'e  might  drop  down  dead  at  any 
moment. 

That  frightened  Bill  a  bit,  and  the  next  night,  in- 
stead of  'aving  lemonade,  'e  had  five  bottles  o'  stone 
ginger-beer,  six  of  different  kinds  of  teetotal  beer, 
three  of  soda-water,  and  two  cups  of  coffee.  I'm  not 
counting  the  drink  he  'ad  at  the  chemist's  shop  arter- 
ward,  because  he  took  that  as  medicine,  but  he  was 
so  queer  in  'is  inside  next  morning  that  'e  began  to  be 
afraid  he'd  'ave  to  give  up  drink  altogether. 

He  went  without  the  next  night,  but  'e  was  such  a 
generous  man  that  'e  would  pay  every  fourth  time, 
and  there  was  no  pleasure  to  the  other  chaps  to  see 
'im  pay  and  'ave  nothing  out  of  it.  It  spoilt  their 

80 


Bill's  Lapse 


evening,  and  owing  to  'aving  only  about  'arf  wot  they 
was  accustomed  to  they  all  got  up  very  disagreeable 
next  morning. 

"Why  not  take  just  a  little  beer,  Bill?"  asks  Ginger. 

Bill  'ung  his  'ead  and  looked  a  bit  silly.  "I'd 
rather  not,  mate,"  he  ses,  at  last.  "I've  been  teetotal 
for  eleven  months  now." 

"Think  of  your  'ealth,  Bill,"  ses  Peter  Russet; 
"your  'ealth  is  more  important  than  the  pledge.  Wot 
made  you  take  it?" 

Bill  coughed.  "I  'ad  reasons,"  he  ses,  slowly.  "A 
mate  o'  mine  wished  me  to." 

"He  ought  to  ha'  known  better,"  ses  Sam. 

"He  'ad  'is  reasons,"  ses  Bill. 

"Well,  all  I  can  say  is,  Bill,"  ses  Ginger,  "all  I 
can  say  is,  it's  very  disobligin'  of  you." 

"Disobligin'  ?"  ses  Bill,  with  a  start;  "don't  say 
that,  mate." 

"I  must  say  it,"  ses  Ginger,  speaking  very  firm. 

"You  needn't  take  a  lot,  Bill,"  ses  Sam;  "nobody 
wants  you  to  do  that.  Just  drink  in  moderation,  same 
as  wot  we  do." 

"It  gets  into  my  'ead,"  ses  Bill,  at  last. 

"Well,  and  wot  of  it?"  ses  Ginger;  "it  gets  into 
everybody's  'ead  occasionally.  Why,  one  night  old 
Sam  'ere  went  up  behind  a  policeman  and  tickled  'im 
under  the  arms;  didn't  you,  Sam?" 

"I  did  nothing  o'  the  kind,"  ses  Sam,  firing  up. 
81 


Bill's  Lapse 


"Well,  you  was  fined  ten  bob  for  it  next  morning, 
that's  all  I  know,"  ses  Ginger. 

"I  was  fined  ten  bob  for  punching  'im,"  ses  old 
Sam,  very  wild.  "I  never  tickled  a  policeman  in  my 
life.  I  never  thought  o'  such  a  thing.  I'd  no  more 
tickle  a  policeman  than  I'd  fly.  Anybody  that  ses  I 
did  is  a  liar.  Why  should  I  ?  Where  does  the  sense 
come  in?  Wot  should  I  want  to  do  it  for?" 

"All  right,  Sam,"  ses  Ginger,  sticking  'is  fingers 
in  'is  ears,  "you  didn't,  then." 

"No,  I  didn't,"  ses  Sam,  "and  don't  you  forget  it. 
This  ain't  the  fust  time  you've  told  that  lie  about  me. 
I  can  take  a  joke  with  any  man;  but  anybody  that 
goes  and  ses  I  tickled " 

"All  right"  ses  Ginger  and  Peter  Russet  together. 
"You'll  'ave  tickled  policeman  on  the  brain  if  you 
ain't  careful,  Sam,"  ses  Peter. 

Old  Sam  sat  down  growling,  and  Ginger  Dick 
turned  to  Bill  agin.  "It  gets  into  everybody's  'ead 
at  times,"  he  ses,  "and  where's  the  'arm?  It's  wot  it 
was  meant  for." 

Bill  shook  his  'ead,  but  when  Ginger  called  'im 
disobligin'  agin  he  gave  way  and  he  broke  the  pledge 
that  very  evening  with  a  pint  o'  six  'arf. 

Ginger  was  surprised  to  see  the  way  'e  took  his 
liquor.  Alter  three  or  four  pints  he'd  expected  to  see 
'im  turn  a  bit  silly,  or  sing,  or  do  something  o'  the 
kind,  but  Bill  kept  on  as  if  'e  was  drinking  water. 

82 


Bill's  Lapse 

"Think  of  the  'armless  pleasure  you've  been  losing 
all  these  months,  Bill,"  ses  Ginger,  smiling  at  him. 

Bill  said  it  wouldn't  bear  thinking  of,  and,  the  next 
place  they  came  to  he  said  some  rather  'ard  things  of 
the  man  who'd  persuaded  'im  to  take  the  pledge.  He 
'ad  two  or  three  more  there,  and  then  they  began  to 
see  that  it  was  beginning  to  have  an  effect  on  'im. 
The  first  one  that  noticed  it  was  Ginger  Dick.  Bill 
'ad  just  lit  'is  pipe,  and  as  he  threw  the  match  down 
he  ses:  "I  don't  like  these  'ere  safety  matches,"  he  ses. 

"Don't  you,  Bill?"  ses  Ginger.     "  I  do,  rather." 

"Oh,  you  do,  do  you?"  ses  Bill,  turning  on  'im  like 
lightning;  "well,  take  that  for  contradictin',"  he  ses, 
an'  he  gave  Ginger  a  smack  that  nearly  knocked  his 
'ead  off. 

It  was  so  sudden  that  old  Sam  and  Peter  put  their 
beer  down  and  stared  at  each  other  as  if  they  couldn't 
believe  their  eyes.  Then  they  stooped  down  and 
helped  pore  Ginger  on  to  'is  legs  agin  and  began  to 
brush  'im  down. 

"Never  mind  about  'im,  mates,"  ses  Bill,  looking 
at  Ginger  very  wicked.  "P'r'aps  he  won't  be  so  ready 
to  give  me  'is  lip  next  time.  Let's  come  to  another 
pub  and  enjoy  ourselves." 

Sam  and  Peter  followed  'im  out  like  lambs,  'ardly 
daring  to  look  over  their  shoulder  at  Ginger,  who 
was  staggering  arter  them  some  distance  behind  a 
'olding  a  handerchief  to  'is  face. 

83 


Bill's  Lapse 


"It's  your  turn  to  pay,  Sam,"  ses  Bill,  when  they'd 
got  inside  the  next  place.  "Wot's  it  to  be?  Give  it 
a  name." 

"Three  'arf  pints  o'  four  ale,  miss,"  ses  Sam,  not 
because  'e  was  mean,  but  because  it  wasn't  'is  turn. 

"Three  wot?"  ses  Bill,  turning  on  'im. 

"Three  pots  o'  six  ale,  miss,"  ses  Sam,  in  a 
hurry. 

"That  wasn't  wot  you  said  afore,"  ses  Bill.  "Take 
that,"  he  ses,  giving  pore  old  Sam  a  wipe  in  the 
mouth  and  knocking  'im  over  a  stool;  "take  that  for 
your  sauce." 

Peter  Russet  stood  staring  at  Sam  and  wondering 
wot  Bill  ud  be  like  when  he'd  'ad  a  little  more.  Sara 
picked  hisself  up  arter  a  time  and  went  outside  to 
talk  to  Ginger  about  it,  and  then  Bill  put  'is  arm 
round  Peter's  neck  and  began  to  cry  a  bit  and  say  'e 
was  the  only  pal  he'd  got  left  in  the  world.  It  was 
very  awkward  for  Peter,  and  more  awkward  still 
when  the  barman  came  up  and  told  'im  to  take  Bill 
outside. 

"Go  on,"  he  ses,  "out  with  'im." 

"He's  all  right,"  ses  Peter,  trembling;  "'e's  the 
truest-'arted  gentleman  in  London.  Ain't  you, 
Bill?" 

Bill  said  he  was,  and  'e  asked  the  barman  to  go  and 
hide  'is  face  because  it  reminded  'im  of  a  little  dog 
'e  had  'ad  once  wot  'ad  died. 

84 


Bill's  Lapse 


"You  get  outside  afore  you're  hurt,"  ses  the  bar- 
man. 

Bill  punched  at  'im  over  the  bar,  and  not  being  able 
to  reach  'im  threw  Peter's  pot  o'  beer  at  'im.  There 
was  a  fearful  to-do  then,  and  the  landlord  jumped 
over  the  bar  and  stood  in  the  doorway,  whistling  for 


"  Bfll  jumped  into  a  cab  and  pulled  Peter  Russet  in  arter  *nn.** 

the  police.  Bill  struck  out  right  and  left,  and  the 
men  in  the  bar  went  down  like  skittles,  Peter  among 
them.  Then  they  got  outside,  and  Bill,  arter  giving 
the  landlord  a  thump  in  the  back  wot  nearly  made 
him  swallow  the  whistle,  jumped  into  a  cab  and 
pulled  Peter  Russet  in  arter  'im. 

85 


Bill's  Lapse 

"I'll  talk  to  you  by-and-by,"  he  ses,  as  the  cab 
drove  off  at  a  gallop;  "there  ain't  room  in  this  cab. 
You  wait,  my  lad,  that's  all.  You  just  wait  till  we 
get  out,  and  I'll  knock  you  silly." 

"Wot  for,  Bill?"  ses  Peter,  staring. 

"Don't  you  talk  to  me,"  roars  Bill.  "If  I  choose 
to  knock  you  about  that's  my  business,  ain't  it?  Be- 
sides, you  know  very  well." 

He  wouldn't  let  Peter  say  another  word,  but  com- 
ing to  a  quiet  place  near  the  docks  he  stopped  the  cab 
and  pulling  'im  out  gave  'im  such  a  dressing  down 
that  Peter  thought  'is  last  hour  'ad  arrived.  He  let 
'im  go  at  last,  and  after  first  making  him  pay  the  cab- 
man took  'im  along  till  they  came  to  a  public-'ouse 
and  made  'im  pay  for  drinks. 

They  stayed  there  till  nearly  eleven  o'clock,  and 
then  Bill  set  off  home  'olding  the  unfortunit  Peter 
by  the  scruff  o'  the  neck,  and  wondering  out  loud 
whether  'e  ought  to  pay  'im  a  bit  more  or  not.  Afore 
'e  could  make  up  'is  mind,  however,  he  turned  sleepy, 
and,  throwing  'imself  down  on  the  bed  which  was 
meant  for  the  two  of  'em,  fell  into  a  peaceful  sleep. 

Sam  and  Ginger  Dick  came  in  a  little  while  arter- 
ward,  both  badly  marked  where  Bill  'ad  hit  them, 
and  sat  talking  to  Peter  in  whispers  as  to  wot  was  to 
be  done.  Ginger,  who  'ad  plenty  of  pluck,  was  for 
them  all  to  set  on  to  'im,  but  Sam  wouldn't  'ear  of  it, 
and  as  for  Peter  he  was  so  sore  he  could  'ardly  move. 

86 


Bill's  Lapse 

They  all  turned  in  to  the  other  bed  at  last,  'arf 
afraid  to  move  for  fear  of  disturbing  Bill,  and  when 
they  woke  up  in  the  morning  and  see  'im  sitting  up 
in  'is  bed  they  lay  as  still  as  mice. 

"Why,  Ginger,  old  chap,"  ses  Bill,  with  a  'earty 
smile,  "wot  are  you  all  three  in  one  bed  for?" 

"We  was  a  bit  cold,"  ses  Ginger. 

"Cold?"  ses  Bill.  "Wot,  this  weather?  We 'ad 
a  bit  of  a  spree  last  night,  old  man,  didn't  we?  My 
throat's  as  dry  as  a  cinder." 

"It  ain't  my  idea  of  a  spree,"  ses  Ginger,  sitting  up 
and  looking  at  'im. 

"Good  'eavens,  Ginger!"  ses  Bill,  starting  back, 
"wotever  'ave  you  been  a-doing  to  your  face?  Have 
you  been  tumbling  off  of  a  'bus?" 

Ginger  couldn't  answer;  and  Sam  Small  and  Peter 
sat  up  in  bed  alongside  of  'im,  and  Bill,  getting  as  far 
back  on  'is  bed  as  he  could,  sat  staring  at  their  pore 
faces  as  if  'e  was  having  a  'orrible  dream. 

"And  there's  Sam,"  he  ses.  "Where  ever  did  you 
get  that  mouth,  Sam?" 

"Same  place  as  Ginger  got  'is  eye  and  pore  Peter 
got  'is  face,"  ses  Sam,  grinding  his  teeth. 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,"  ses  Bill,  in  a  sad 
voice — "you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  I  did  it?" 

"You  know  well  enough,"  ses  Ginger. 

Bill  looked  at  'em,  and  'is  face  got  as  long  as  a 
yard  measure. 

87 


Bill's  Lapse 


"I'd  'oped  I'd  growed  out  of  it,  mates,"  he  ses,  at 
last,  "but  drink  always  takes  me  like  that.  I  can't 
keep  a  pal." 

"You  sur-prise  me,"  ses  Ginger,  sarcastic-like. 

"Don't  talk  like  that,  Ginger,"  ses  Bill,  'arf  crying. 
"It  ain't  my  fault;  it's  my  weakness.  Wot  did  I  do 
it  for?" 

"I  don't  know,"  ses  Ginger,  "but  you  won't  get  the 
chance  of  doing  it  agin,  I'll  tell  you  that  much." 

"I  daresay  I  shall  be  better  to-night,  Ginger,"  ses 
Bill,  very  humble;  "it  don't  always  take  me  that 
way." 

"Well,  we  don't  want  you  with  us  any  more,"  ses 
old  Sam,  'olding  his  'ead  very  high. 

"You'll  'ave  to  go  and  get  your  beer  by  yourself, 
Bill,"  ses  Peter  Russet,  feeling  'is  bruises  with  the  tips 
of  'is  fingers. 

"But  then  I  should  be  worse,"  ses  Bill.  "I  want 
cheerful  company  when  I'm  like  that.  I  should  very 
likely  come  'ome  and  'arf  kill  you  all  in  your  beds. 
You  don't  'arf  know  what  I'm  like.  Last  night  was 
nothing,  else  I  should  'ave  remembered  it." 

"Cheerful  company?"  ses  old  Sam.  "'Ow  do  you 
think  company's  going  to  be  cheerful  when  you're 
carrying  on  like  that,  Bill  ?  Why  don't  you  go  away 
and  leave  us  alone?" 

"Because  I've  got  a  'art,"  ses  Bill.  "I  can't  chuck 
up  pals  in  that  free-and-easy  way.  Once  I  take  a  lik- 

88 


Bill's  Lapse 


ing  to  anybody  I'd  do  anything  for  'em,  and  I've 
never  met  three  chaps  I  like  better  than  wot  I  do  you. 
Three  nicer,  straightforrad,  free-'anded  mates  I've 
never  met  afore." 

"Why  not  take  the  pledge  agin,  Bill?"  ses  Peter 
Russet. 

"No,  mate,"  ses  Bill,  with  a  kind  smile;  "it's  just  a 
weakness,  and  I  must  try  and  grow  out  of  it.  I'll  tie 
a  bit  o'  string  round  my  little  finger  to-night  as  a  re- 
minder." 

He  got  out  of  bed  and  began  to  wash  'is  face,  and 
Ginger  Dick,  who  was  doing  a  bit  o'  thinking,  gave  a 
whisper  to  Sam  and  Peter  Russet. 

"All  right,  Bill,  old  man,"  he  ses,  getting  out  of 
bed  and  beginning  to  put  his  clothes  on;  "but  first  of 
all  we'll  try  and  find  out  'ow  the  landlord  is." 

"Landlord?"  ses  Bill,  puffing  and  blowing  in  the 
basin.  "Wot  landlord?" 

"Why,  the  one  you  bashed,"  ses  Ginger,  with  a 
wink  at  the  other  two.  '"He  'adn't  got  'is  senses  back 
when  me  and  Sam  came  away." 

Bill  gave  a  groan  and  sat  on  the  bed  while  'e  dried 
nimself,  and  Ginger  told  'im  'ow  he  'ad  bent  a  quart 
pot  on  the  landlord's  'ead,  and  'ow  the  landlord  'ad 
been  carried  upstairs  and  the  doctor  sent  for.  He 
began  to  tremble  all  over,  and  when  Ginger  said  he'd 
go  out  and  see  'ow  the  land  lay  'e  could  'ardly  thank 
'im  enough. 

89 


Bill's  Lapse 


Ginger  was  gone  about  two  hours,  and  when  'e 
came  back  he  looked  so  solemn  that  old  Sam  asked 
'im  whether  he  'ad  seen  a  ghost.  Ginger  didn't 
answer  'im;  he  set  down  on  the  side  o'  the  bed  and 
sat  thinking. 

"I  s'pose — I  s'pose  it's  nice  and  fresh  in  the  streets 
this  morning?"  ses  Bill,  at  last,  in  a  trembling  voice. 

Ginger  started  and  looked  at  'im.  "I  didn't  notice, 
mate,"  he  ses.  Then  'e  got  up  and  patted  Bill  on  the 
back,  very  gentle,  and  sat  down  again. 

"Anything  wrong,  Ginger?"  asks  Peter  Russet, 
staring  at  'im. 

"It's  that  landlord,"  ses  Ginger;  "there's  straw 
down  in  the  road  outside,  and  they  say  that  he's  dy- 
ing. Pore  old  Bill  don't  know  'is  own  strength.  The 
best  thing  you  can  do,  old  pal,  is  to  go  as  far  away  as 
you  can,  at  once." 

"I  shouldn't  wait  a  minnit  if  it  was  me,"  ses  old 
Sam. 

Bill  groaned  and  hid  'Is  face  in  his  'ands,  and  then 
Peter  Russet  went  and  spoilt  things  by  saying  that 
the  safest  place  for  a  murderer  to  'ide  in  was  London. 
Bill  gave  a  dreadful  groan  when  'e  said  murderer,  but 
'e  up  and  agreed  with  Peter,  and  all  Sam  and  Ginger 
Dick  could  do  wouldn't  make  'im  alter  his  mind.  He 
said  that  he  would  shave  off  'is  beard  and  moustache, 
and  when  night  came  'e  would  creep  out  and  take  a 
lodging  somewhere  right  the  other  end  of  London. 

00 


Bill's  Lapse 

He  stayed  in  the  bedroom  all  day,  with  the  blinds 
down,  and  wouldn't  eat  anything,  and  when  Ginger 
looked  in  about  eight  o'clock  to  find  out  whether  he 
'ad  gone,  he  found  '5m  sitting  on  the  bed  clean  shaved, 


"  Then  'e  got  up  and  patted  Bill  on  the  back,  very  gentle." 

and  'is  face  cut  about  all  over  where  the  razor  'ad 
slipped. 

"It'll  soon  be  dark,"  ses  Ginger,  "and  your  own 
brother  wouldn't  know  you  now,  Bill.  Where  d'you 
think  of  going?" 

01 


Bill's  Lapse 

Bill  shook  his  'ead.  "Nobody  must  know  that, 
mate,'r  he  ses.  "I  must  go  into  hiding  for  as  long  as 
I  can — -as  long  as  my  money  lasts;  I've  only  got  six 
pounds  leftj" 

"That'll  last  a  long  time  if  you're  careful,"  ses 
Ginger. 

"I  want  A  lot  more,*'  ses  Bill.  "I  want  you  to 
take  this  silver  ring  as  a  keepsake,  Ginger.  If  I  'ad 
another  six  po»ands  or  so  I  should  feel  much  safer. 
'Ow  much  'avc  you  got,  Ginger?" 

"Not  much,"  ses  Ginger,  shaking  his  'ead. 

"Lend  it  to  me,  mate,"  ses  Bill,  stretching  out  his 
'and.  "You  can  ?asy  get  another  ship.  Ah,  I  wish 
I  was  you;  I'd  be  is  'appy  as  'appy  if  I  hadn't  got  a 
penny." 

"I'm  very  sorry,  Bill,"  ses  Ginger,  trying  to  smile, 
"but  I've  already  promised  to  lend  it  to  a  man  wot 
we  met  this  evening.  A  promise  is  a  promise,  else 
I'd  lend  it  to  you  with  pleasure." 

"Would  you  let  me  be  'ung  for  the  sake  of  a  few 
pounds,  Ginger?"  ses  Bill,  looking  at  'im  reproach- 
fully. "I'm  a  desprit  man,  Ginger,  and  I  must  'ave 
that  money." 

Afore  pore  Ginger  could  move  he  suddenly  clapped 
'is  hand  over  'is  mouth  and  flung  'im  on  the  bed. 
Ginger  was  like  a  child  in  'is  hands,  although  he 
struggled  like  a  madman,  and  in  five  minutes  'e  was 
laying  there  with  a  towel  tied  round  his  mouth  and 

92 


Bill's  Lapse 


'is  arms  and  legs  tied  up  with  the  cord  off  of  Sam's 
chest. 

"I'm  very  sorry,  Ginger,"  ses  Bill,  as  'e  took  a 
little  over  eight  pounds  out  of  Ginger's  pocket.  "I'll 
pay  you  back  one  o'  these  days,  if  I  can.  If  you'd  got 
a  rope  round  your  neck  same  as  I  'ave  you'd  do  the 
same  as  I've  done." 

He  lifted  up  the  bedclothes  and  put  Ginger  inside 
and  tucked  'im  up.  Ginger's  face  was  red  with  pas- 
sion and  'is  eyes  starting  out  of  his  'ead. 

"Eight  and  six  is  fifteen,"  ses  Bill,  and  just  then 
he  'card  somebody  coming  up  the  stairs.  Ginger 
'card  it,  too,  and  as  Peter  Russet  came  into  the  room 
'e  tried  all  'e  could  to  attract  'is  attention  by  rolling 
'is  'ead  from  side  to  side. 

"Why,  'as  Ginger  gone  to  bed  ?"  ses  Peter.  "Wot's 
up,  Ginger?" 

"He's  all  right,"  ses  Bill;  "just  a  bit  of  a  'eadache." 

Peter  stood  staring  at  the  bed,  and  then  'e  pulled 
the  clothes  off  and  saw  pore  Ginger  all  tied  up,  and 
making  awful  eyes  at  'im  to  undo  him. 

"I  'ad  to  do  it,  Peter,"  ses  Bill.  "I  wanted  some 
more  money  to  escape  with,  and  'e  wouldn't  lend  it  to 
me.  I  'aven't  got  as  much  as  I  want  now.  You  just 
came  in  in  the  nick  of  time.  Another  minute  and 
you'd  ha'  missed  me.  'Ow  much  'ave  you  got?" 

"Ah,  I  wish  I  could  lend  you  some,  Bill,"  ses 
Peter  Russet,  turning  pale,  "but  I've  'ad  my  pocket 

93 


Bill's  Lapse 

picked ;  that's  wot  I  came  back  for,  to  get  some  from 
Ginger." 

Bill  didn't  say  a  word. 

"You  see  'ow  it  is,  Bill,"  ses  Peter,  edging  back 
toward  the  door;  "three  men  laid  'old  of  me  and 
took  every  farthing  I'd  got." 

"Well,  I  can't  rob  you,  then,"  ses  Bill,  catching 
'old  of  'im.  "Whoever's  money  this  is,"  he  ses,  pull- 
ing a  handful  out  o'  Peter's  pocket,  "it  can't  be 
yours.  Now,  if  you  make  another  sound  I'll  knock 
your  'ead  off  afore  I  tie  you  up." 

"Don't  tie  me  up,  Bill,"  ses  Peter,  struggling. 

"I  can't  trust  you,"  ses  Bill,  dragging  'im  over  to 
the  washstand  and  taking  up  the  other  towel;  "turn 
round." 

Peter  was  a  much  easier  job  than  Ginger  Dick,  and 
arter  Bill  'ad  done  'im  'e  put  'im  in  alongside  o'  Gin- 
ger and  covered  'em  up,  arter  first  tying  both  the  gags 
round  with  some  string  to  prevent  'em  slipping. 

"Mind,  I've  only  borrowed  it,"  he  ses,  standing  by 
the  side  o'  the  bed;  "but  I  must  say,  mates,  I'm  dis- 
appointed in  both  of  you.  If  either  of  you  'ad  'ad 
the  misfortune  wot  I've  'ad,  I'd  have  sold  the  clothes 
off  my  back  to  'elp  you.  And  I  wouldn't  'ave  waited 
to  be  asked  neither." 

He  stood  there  for  a  minute  very  sorrowful,  and 
then  'e  patted  both  their  'eads  and  went  downstairs. 
Ginger  and  Peter  lay  listening  for  a  bit,  and  then 
->  94 


Bill's  Lapse 

they  turned  their  pore  bound-up  faces  to  each  other 
and  tried  to  talk  with  their  eyes. 

Then  Ginger  began  to  wriggle  and  try  and  twist 
the  cords  off,  but  'e  might  as  well  'ave  tried  to  wriggle 
out  of  'is  skin.  The  worst  of  it  was  they  couldn't 
make  known  their  intentions  to  each  other,  and  when 
Peter  Russet  leaned  over  'im  and  tried  to  work  'is  gag 
off  by  rubbing  it  up  agin  'is  nose,  Ginger  pretty  near 
went  crazy  with  temper.  He  banged  Peter  with  hi's 
'ead,  and  Peter  banged  back,  and  they  kept  it  up  till 
they'd  both  got  splitting  'eadaches,  and  at  last  they 
gave  up  in  despair  and  lay  in  the  darkness  waiting 
for  Sam. 

And  all  this  time  Sam  was  sitting  in  the  Red  Lion, 
waiting  for  them.  He  sat  there  quite  patient  till 
twelve  o'clock  and  then  walked  slowly  'ome,  wonder- 
ing wot  'ad  happened  and  whether  Bill  had  gone. 

Ginger  was  the  fust  to  'ear  'is  foot  on  the  stairs, 
and  as  he  came  into  the  room,  in  the  darkness,  him 
an'  Peter  Russet  started  shaking  their  bed  in  a  way 
that  scared  old  Sam  nearly  to  death.  He  thought  it 
was  Bill  carrying  on  agin,  and  'e  was  out  o'  that  door 
and  'arf-way  downstairs  afore  he  stopped  to  take 
breath.  He  stood  there  trembling  for  about  ten  min- 
utes, and  then,  as  nothing  'appened,  he  walked  slowly 
upstairs  agin  on  tiptoe,  and  as  soon  as  they  heard 
the  door  creak  Peter  and  Ginger  made  that  bed  do 
everything  but  speak. 

95 


Bill's  Lapse 

"Is  that  you,  Bill?"  ses  old  Sam,  in  a  shaky  voice, 
and  standing  ready  to  dash  downstairs  agin. 

There  was  no  answer  except  for  the  bed,  and  Sam 
didn't  know  whether  Bill  was  dying  or  whether  'e  'ad 
got  delirium  trimmings.  All  'e  did  know  was  that  'e 
wasn't  going  to  sleep  in  that  room.  He  shut  the  door 
gently  and  went  downstairs  agin,  feeling  in  'is  pocket 
for  a  match,  and,  not  finding  one,  'e  picked  out  the 
softest  stair  'e  could  find  and,  leaning  his  'ead  agin 
the  banisters,  went  to  sleep. 

It  was  about  six  o'clock  when  'e  woke  up.  and 
broad  daylight.  He  was  stiff  and  sore  all  over,  and 
feeling  braver  in  the  light  'e  stepped  softly  upstairs 
and  opened  the  door.  Peter  and  Ginger  was  waiting 
for  Mm,  and  as  he  peeped  in  'e  saw  two  things  sitting 
up  in  bed  with  their  'air  standing  up  all  over  like 
mops  and  their  faces  tied  up  with  bandages.  He 
was  that  startled  'e  nearly  screamed,  and  then  'e 
stepped  into  the  room  and  stared  at  'em  as  if  he 
couldn't  believe  'is  eyes. 

"Is  that  you,  Ginger?"  he  ses.  "Wot  d'ye  mean 
by  making  sights  of  yourselves  like  that?  'Ave  you 
took  leave  of  your  senses?" 

Ginger  and  Peter  shook  their  'eads  and  rolled 
their  eyes,  and  then  Sam  see  wot  was  the  matter  with 
'em.  Fust  thing  'e  did  was  to  pull  out  'is  knife  nnd 
cut  Ginger's  gag  off,  and  the  fust  thing  Ginger  did 
was  to  call  Mm  every  name  'e  could  lay  his  tongue  to. 

06 


Bill's  Lapse 

"You  wait  a  moment,"  he  screams,  'arf  crying  with 
rage.     "You  wait  till  I  get  my  'ands  loose  and  I'll 


'*  "e  picked  out  the  softest  stair  *e  could  find.** 

97 


Bill's  Lapse 


pull  you  to  pieces.  The  idea  o'  leaving  us  like  this  all 
night,  you  old  crocodile.  I  'card  you  come  in.  I'll 
pay  you." 

Sam  didn't  answer  'im.  He  cut  off  Peter  Russet's 
gag,  and  Peter  Russet  called  'im  'arf  a  score  o'  names 
without  taking  breath. 

"And  when  Ginger's  finished  I'll  'ave  a  go  at  you," 
he  ses.  "Cut  off  these  lines." 

"At  once,  d'ye  hear?"  ses  Ginger.  "Oh,  you  wait 
till  I  get  my  'ands  on  you." 

Sam  didn't  answer  'em;  he  shut  up  'is  knife  with  a 
click  and  then  'e  sat  at  the  foot  o'  the  bed  on  Ginger's 
feet  and  looked  at  'em.  It  wasn't  the  fust  time  they'd 
been  rude  to  'im,  but  as  a  rule  he'd  'ad  to  put  up  with 
it.  He  sat  and  listened  while  Ginger  swore  'imself 
faint. 

"That'll  do,"  he  ses,  at  last;  "another  word  and  I 
shall  put  the  bedclothes  over  your  'ead.  Afore 
I  do  anything  more  I  want  to  know  wot  it's  all 
about." 

Peter  told  'im,  arter  fust  calling  'im  some  more 
names,  because  Ginger  was  past  it,  and  when  'e'd 
finished  old  Sam  said  'ow  surprised  he  was  at  them 
for  letting  Bill  do  it,  and  told  'em  how  they  ought  to 
''ave  prevented  it.  He  sat  there  talking  as  though  'e 
enjoyed  the  sound  of  'is  own  voice,  and  he  told  Peter 
and  Ginger  all  their  faults  and  said  wot  sorrow  it 
caused  their  friends.  Twice  he  'ad  to  throw  the  bed- 

98 


Bill's  Lapse 

clothes  over  their  'eads  because  o'  the  noise  they  was 
making. 

"Are — -you — going — to  undo — us?'*     ses   Ginger, 
at  last. 


"  Old  Sam  said  'ow  surprised  he  was  at  them  for  letting  Bill  do  it." 

"No,  Ginger,"  ses  old  Sam;  "in  justice  to  myself 
I  couldn't  do  it.  Arter  wot  you've  said — and  arter 
wot  I've  said — my  life  wouldn't  be  safe.  Besides 
which,  you'd  want  to  go  shares  in  my  money," 

99 


Bill's  Lapse 

He  took  up  'is  chest  and  marched  downstairs  with 
it,  and  about  'arf  an  hour  arterward  the  landlady's 
'usband  came  up  and  set  'em  free.  As  soon  as  they'd 
got  the  use  of  their  legs  back  they  started  out  to  look 
for  Sam,  but  they  didn't  find  'im  for  nearly  a  year, 
and  as  for  Bill,  they  never  set  eyes  on  'im  again. 


TOO 


LAWYER    QUINCE 


LAWYER    QUINCE 

LAWYER  QUINCE,  so  called  by  his  neigh- 
hours  in  Little  Haven  from  his  readiness  at 
all  times  to  place  at  their  disposal  the  legal 
lore  he  had  acquired  from  a  few  old  books  while  fol- 
lowing his  useful  occupation  of  making  boots,  sat  in 
a  kind  of  wooden  hutch  at  the  side  of  his  cottage 
plying  his  trade.  The  London  coach  had  gone  by  in 
a  cloud  of  dust  some  three  hours  before,  and  since 
then  the  wide  village  street  had  slumbered  almost 
undisturbed  in  the  sunshine. 

Hearing  footsteps  and  the  sound  of  voices  raised 
in  dispute  caused  him  to  look  up  from  his  work.  Mr. 
Rose,  of  Holly  Farm,  Hogg,  the  miller,  and  one  or 
two  neighbours  of  lesser  degree  appeared  to  be  in 
earnest  debate  over  some  point  of  unusual  difficulty. 

Lawyer  Quince  took  a  pinch  of  snuff  and  bent  to 
his  work  again.  Mr.  Rose  was  one  of  the  very  few 
who  openly  questioned  his  legal  knowledge,  and  his 
gibes  concerning  it  were  only  too  frequent.  More- 
over, he  had  a  taste  for  practical  joking,  which  to  a 
grave  man  was  sometimes  offensive. 

"Well,  here  he  be,"  said  Mr.  Hogg  to  the  farmer, 
as  the  group  halted  in  front  of  the  hutch.  "Now  ask 

103 


Lawyer  Quince 

Lawyer  Quince  and  see  whether  I  ain't  told  you  true. 
I'm  willing  to  abide  by  what  he  says." 

Mr.  Quince  put  down  his  hammer  and,  brushing 
a  little  snuff  from  his  coat,  leaned  back  in  his  chair 
and  eyed  them  with  grave  confidence. 

"It's  like  this,"  said  the  farmer.  "Young  Pascoe 
has  been  hanging  round  after  my  girl  Celia,  though 
I  told  her  she  wasn't  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  him. 
Half  an  hour  ago  I  was  going  to  put  my  pony  in  its 
stable  when  I  see  a  young  man  sitting  there  waiting." 

"Well?"  said  Mr.  Quince,  after  a  pause. 

"He's  there  yet,"  said  the  farmer.  "I  locked  him 
in,  and  Hogg  here  says  that  I've  got  the  right  to 
keep  him  locked  up  there  as  long  as  I  like.  I  say 
it's  agin  the  law,  but  Hogg  he  says  no.  I  say  his 
folks  would  come  and  try  to  break  open  my  stable, 
but  Hogg  says  if  they  do  I  can  have  the  law  of  'em 
for  damaging  my  property." 

"So  you  can,"  interposed  Mr.  Hogg,  firmly. 
"You  see  whether  Lawyer  Quince  don't  say  I'm 
right." 

Mr.  Quince  frowned,  and  in  order  to  think  more 
deeply  closed  his  eyes.  Taking  advantage  of  this 
three  of  his  auditors,  with  remarkable  unanimity, 
each  closed  one. 

"It's  your  stable,"  said  Mr.  Quince,  opening  his 
eyes  and  speaking  with  great  deliberation,  "and  you 
have  a  right  to  lock  it  up  when  you  like." 

104 


Lawyer   Quince 


"There  you  are,"  said  Mr.  Hogg;  "what  did  I 
tell  you?" 

"If  anybody's  there  that's  got  no  business  there, 
that's  his  look-out,"  continued  Mr.  Quince.  "You 
didn't  induce  him  to  go  in?" 

"Certainly  not,"  replied  the  farmer. 

"I  told  him  he  can  keep  him  there  as  long  as  he 
likes,"  said  the  jubilant  Mr.  Hogg,  "and  pass  him 
in  bread  and  water  through  the  winder;  it's  got  bars 
to  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Quince,  nodding,  "he  can  do  that. 
As  for  his  folks  knocking  the  place  about,  if  you  like 
to  tie  up  one  or  two  of  them  nasty,  savage  dogs  ©f 
yours  to  the  stable,  well,  it's  your  stable,  and  you 
can  fasten  your  dogs  to  it  if  you  like.  And  you've 
generally  got  a  man  about  the  yard." 

Mr.  Hogg  smacked  his  thigh  in  ecstasy. 

"But — "  began  the  farmer. 

"That's  the  law,"  said  the  autocratic  Mr.  Quince, 
sharply.  "O'  course,  if  you  think  you  know  more 
about  it  than  I  do,  I've  nothing  more  to  say." 

"I  don't  want  to  do  nothing  I  could  get  into 
trouble  for,"  murmured  Mr.  Rose. 

"You  can't  get  into  trouble  by  doing  as  I  tell  you," 
said  the  shoemaker,  impatiently.  "However,  to  be 
quite  on  the  safe  side,  if  I  was  in  your  place  I  should 
lose  the  key." 

"Lose  the  key?"  said  the  farmer,  blankly. 

105 


Lawyer  Quince 

"Lose  the  key,"  repeated  the  shoemaker,  his  eyes 
watering  with  intense  appreciation  of  his  own  re- 
sourcefulness. "You  can  find  it  any  time  you  want 
to,  you  know.  Keep  him  there  till  he  promises  to 
give  up  your  daughter,  and  tell  him  that  as  soon  as 
he  does  you'll  have  a  hunt  for  the  key." 

Mr.  Rose  regarded  him  with  what  the  shoemaker 
easily  understood  to  be  speechless  admiration. 

"I — I'm  glad  I  came  to  you,"  said  the  farmer,  at 
last. 

"You're  welcome,"  said  the  shoemaker,  loftily. 
"I'm  always  ready  to  give  advice  to  them  as  require 
it." 

"And  good  advice  it  is,"  said  the  smiling  Mr. 
Hogg.  "Why  don't  you  behave  yourself,  Joe  Garn- 
ham?"  he  demanded,  turning  fiercely  on  a  listener. 

Mr.  Garnham,  whose  eyes  were  watering  with 
emotion,  attempted  to  explain,  but,  becoming  hyster- 
ical, thrust  a  huge  red  handkerchief  to  his  mouth  and 
was  led  away  by  a  friend.  Mr.  Quince  regarded  his 
departure  with  mild  disdain. 

"Little  things  please  little  minds,"  he  remarked. 

"So  they  do,"  said  Mr.  Hogg.  "I  never 
thought —  What's  the  matter  with  you,  George 
Askew?" 

Mr.  Askew,  turning  his  back  on  him,  threw  up  his 
hands  with  a  helpless  gesture  and  followed  in  the 
wake  of  Mr.  Garnham.  Mr.  Hogg  appeared  to  be 

106 


Lawyer  Quince 

about  to  apologise,  and  then  suddenly  altering  his 
mind  made  a  hasty  and  unceremonious  exit,  accom- 
panied by  the  farmer. 

Mr.  Quince  raised  his  eyebrows  and  then,  after  a 
long  and  meditative  pinch  of  snuff,  resumed  his  work. 
The  sun  went  down  and  the  light  faded  slowly;  dis- 
tant voices  sounded  close  on  the  still  evening  air, 
snatches  of  hoarse  laughter  jarred  upon  his  ears.  It 
was  clear  that  the  story  of  the  imprisoned  swain  was 
giving  pleasure  to  Little  Haven. 

He  rose  at  last  from  his  chair  and,  stretching  his 
long,  gaunt  frame,  removed  his  leather  apron,  and 
after  a  wash  at  the  pump  went  into  the  house.  Sup- 
per was  laid,  and  he  gazed  with  approval  on  the 
home-made  sausage  rolls,  the  piece  of  cold  pork,  and 
the  cheese  which  awaited  his  onslaught. 

"We  won't  wait  for  Ned,"  said  Mrs.  Quince,  as 
she  brought  in  a  jug  of  ale  and  placed  it  by  her  hus- 
band's elbow. 

Mr.  Quince  nodded  and  filled  his  glass. 

"You've  been  giving  more  advice,  I  hear,"  said 
Mrs.  Quince. 

Her  husband,  who  was  very  busy,  nodded  again. 

"It  wouldn't  make  no  difference  to  young  Pas- 
coe's  chance,  anyway,"  said  Mrs.  Quince,  thought- 
fully. 

Mr.  Quince  continued  his  labours.  "Why?"  he 
inquired,  at  last. 

107 


Lawyer  Quince 


His  wife  smiled  and  tossed  her  head. 

"Young  Pascoe's  no  chance  against  our  Ned,"  she 
said,  swelling  with  maternal  pride. 

"Eh  ?"  said  the  shoemaker,  laying  down  his  knife 
and  fork.  "Our  Ned?" 

"They  are  as  fond  of  each  other  as  they  can  be," 
said  Mrs.  Quince,  "though  I  don't  suppose  Farmer 
Rose'll  care  for  it;  not  but  what  our  Ned's  as  good 
as  he  is." 

"Is  Ned  up  there  now?"  demanded  the  shoemaker, 
turning  pale,  as  the  mirthful  face  of  Mr.  Garnham 
suddenly  occurred  to  him. 

"Sure  to  be,"  tittered  his  wife.  "And  to  think  o' 
poor  young  Pascoe  shut  up  in  that  stable  while  he's 
courting  Celia!" 

Mr.  Quince  took  up  his  knife  and  fork  again,  but 
his  appetite  had  gone.  Whoever  might  be  paying 
attention  to  Miss  Rose  at  that  moment  he  felt  quite 
certain  that  it  was  not  Mr.  Ned  Quince,  and  he  trem- 
bled with  anger  as  he  saw  the  absurd  situation  into 
which  the  humorous  Mr.  Rose  had  led  him.  For 
years  Little  Haven  had  accepted  his  decisions  as  final 
and  boasted  of  his  sharpness  to  neighbouring  hamlets, 
and  many  a  cottager  had  brought  his  boots  to  be 
mended  a  whole  week  before  their  time  for  the  sake 
of  an  interview. 

He  moved  his  chair  from  the  table  and  smoked  a 
pipe.  Then  he  rose,  and  putting  a  couple  of  formi- 

108 


Lawyer  Quince 

dable  law-books  under  his  arm,  walked  slowly  down 
the  road  in  the  direction  of  Holly  Farm. 

The  road  was  very  quiet  and  the  White  Swan, 
usually  full  at  this  hour,  was  almost  deserted,  but  if 
any  doubts  as  to  the  identity  of  the  prisoner  lingered 
in  his  mind  they  were  speedily  dissipated  by  the  be- 
haviour of  the  few  customers  who  crowded  to  the 
door  to  see  him  pass. 

A  hum  of  voices  fell  on  his  ear  as  he  approached 
the  farm;  half  the  male  and  a  goodly  proportion  of 
the  female  population  of  Little  Haven  were  leaning 
against  the  fence  or  standing  in  little  knots  in  the 
road,  while  a  few  of  higher  social  status  stood  in  the 
farm-yard  itself. 

"Come  down  to  have  a  look  at  the  prisoner?"  in- 
quired the  farmer,  who  was  standing  surrounded  by  a 
little  group  of  admirers. 

"I  came  down  to  see  you  about  that  advice  I  gave 
you  this  afternoon,"  said  Mr.  Quince. 

"Ah !"  said  the  other. 

"I  was  busy  when  you  came,"  continued  Mr. 
Quince,  in  a  voice  of  easy  unconcern,  "and  I  gave  you 
advice  from  memory.  Looking  up  the  subject  after 
you'd  gone  I  found  that  I  was  wrong." 

"You  don't  say  so?"  said  the  farmer,  uneasily. 
"If  I've  done  wrong  I'm  only  doing  what  you  told 
me  I  could  do." 

"Mistakes  will  happen  with  the  best  of  us,"  said 
109 


Lawyer  Quince 

the  shoemaker,  loudly,  for  the  benefit  of  one  or  two 
murmurers.    "I've  known  a  man  to  marry  a  woman 


*  '  Come  down  to  have  a  look  at  the  prisoner  f '  inquired  the  fanner  " 

for  her  money  before  now  and  find  out  afterward 
that  she  hadn't  got  any." 

One  unit  of  the  group  detached  itself  and  wan- 
dered listlessly  toward  the  gate. 

no 


Lawyer  Quince 

"Well,  I  hope  I  ain't  done  nothing  wrong,"  said 
Mr.  Rose,  anxiously.  "You  gave  me  the  advice; 
there's  men  here  as  can  prove  it.  I  don't  want  to  do 
nothing  agin  the  law.  What  had  I  better  do  ?" 

"Well,  if  I  was  you,"  said  Mr.  Quince,  concealing 
his  satisfaction  with  difficulty,  "I  should  let  him  out 
at  once  and  beg  his  pardon,  and  say  you  hope  he'll 
do  nothing  about  it.  I'll  put  in  a  word  for  you  if 
you  like  with  old  Pascoe." 

Mr.  Rose  coughed  and  eyed  him  queerly. 

"You're  a  Briton,"  he  said,  warmly.  "I'll  go  and 
let  him  out  at  once." 

He  strode  off  to  the  stable,  despite  the  protests  of 
Mr.  Hogg,  and,  standing  by  the  door,  appeared  to> 
be  deep  in  thought;  then  he  came  back  slowly,  feeling 
in  his  pockets  as  he  walked. 

"William,"  he  said,  turning  toward  Mr.  Hogg, 
"I  s'pose  you  didn't  happen  to  notice  where  I  put 
that  key?" 

"That  I  didn't,"  said  Mr.  Hogg,  his  face  clearing 
suddenly. 

"I  had  it  in  my  hand  not  half  an  hour  ago," 
said  the  agitated  Mr.  Rose,  thrusting  one  hand 
into  his  trouser-pocket  and  groping.  "It  can't  be 
far." 

Mr.  Quince  attempted  to  speak,  and,  failing,  blew 
his  nose  violently. 

"My  memory  ain't  what  it  used  to  be,"  said  the 
in 


Lawyer  Quince 


farmer.  "Howsomever,  I  dare  say  it'll  turn  up  in 
a  day  or  two." 

"You — you'd  better  force  the  door,"  suggested 
Mr.  Quince,  struggling  to  preserve  an  air  of  judicial 
calm. 

"No,  no,"  said  Mr.  Rose;  "I  ain't  going  to  dam- 
age my  property  like  that.  I  can  lock  my  stable-door 
and  unlock  it  when  I  like;  if  people  get  in  there  as 
have  no  business  there,  it's  their  look-out." 

"That's  law,"  said  Mr.  Hogg;  "I'll  eat  my  hat 
if  it  ain't." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you've  really  lost  the 
key?"  demanded  Mr.  Quince,  eyeing  the  farmer 
sternly. 

"Seems  like  it,"  said  Mr.  Rose.  "However,  he 
won't  come  to  no  hurt.  I'll  put  in  some  bread  and 
water  for  him,  same  as  you  advised  me  to." 

Mr.  Quince  mastered  his  wrath  by  an  effort,  and 
with  no  sign  of  discomposure  moved  away  without 
making  any  reference  to  the  identity  of  the  unfortu- 
nate in  the  stable." 

"Good-night,"  said  the  farmer,  "and  thank  you 
for  coming  and  giving  me  the  fresh  advice.  It  ain't 
everybody  that  'ud  ha'  taken  the  trouble.  If  I  hadn't 
lost  that  key " 

The  shoemaker  scowled,  and  with  the  two  fat 
books  under  his  arm  passed  the  listening  neighbours 
with  the  air  of  a  thoughtful  man  out  for  an  evening 

112 


Lawyer   Quince 


stroll.  Once  inside  his  house,  however,  his  manner 
changed,  the  attitude  of  Mrs.  Quince  demanding,  at 
any  rate,  a  show  of  concern. 

"It's  no  good  talking,"  he  said  at  last.  "Ned 
shouldn't  have  gone  there,  and  as  for  going  to  law 
about  it,  I  sha'n't  do  any  such  thing;  I  should  never 
hear  the  end  of  it.  I  shall  just  go  on  as  usual,  as  if 
nothing  had  happened,  and  when  Rose  is  tired  of 
keeping  him  there  he  must  let  him  out.  I'll  bide  my 
time." 

Mrs.  Quince  subsided  into  vague  mutterings  as  to 
what  she  would  do  if  she  were  a  man,  coupled  with 
sundry  aspersions  upon  the  character,  looks,  and  fam- 
ily connections  of  Farmer  Rose,  which  somewhat  con- 
soled her  for  being  what  she  was. 

"He  has  always  made  jokes  about  your  advice," 
she  said  at  length,  "and  now  everybody'll  think  he's 
right.  I  sha'n't  be  able  to  look  anybody  in  the  face. 
I  should  have  seen  through  it  at  once  if  it  had  been 
me.  I'm  going  down  to  give  him  a  bit  o'  my  mind." 

"You  stay  where  you  are,"  said  Mr.  Quince, 
sharply,  "and,  mind,  you  are  not  to  talk  about  it  to 
anybody.  Farmer  Rose  'ud  like  nothing  better  than 
to  see  us  upset  about  it.  I  ain't  done  with  him  yet. 
You  wait." 

Mrs.  Quince,  having  no  option,  waited,  but  noth- 
ing happened.  The  following  day  found  Ned  Quince 
still  a  prisoner,  and,  considering  the  circumstances,  re- 


Lawyer   Quince 

markably  cheerful.  He  declined  point-blank  to  re- 
nounce his  preposterous  attentions,  and  said  that,  liv- 
ing on  the  premises,  he  felt  half  like  a  son-in-law 
already.  He  also  complimented  the  farmer  upon  the 
quality  of  his  bread. 

The  next  morning  found  him  still  unsubdued,  and, 
under  interrogation  from  the  farmer,  he  admitted 
that  he  liked  it,  and  said  that  the  feeling  of  being  at 
home  was  growing  upon  him. 

"If  you're  satisfied,  I  am,"  said  Mr.  Rose,  grimly. 
"I'll  keep  you  here  till  you  promise;  mind  that." 

"It's  a  nobleman's  life,"  said  Ned,  peeping 
through  the  window,  "and  I'm  beginning  to  like  you 
as  much  as  my  real  father." 

"I  don't  want  none  o'  yer  impudence,"  said  the 
farmer,  reddening. 

"You'll  like  me  better  when  you've  had  me  here  a 
little  longer,"  said  Ned;  "I  shall  grow  on  you.  Why 
not  be  reasonable  and  make  up  your  mind  to  it? 
Celia  and  I  have." 

"I'm  going  to  send  Celia  away  on  Saturday,"  said 
Mr.  Rose;  "make  yourself  happy  and  comfortable  in 
here  till  then.  If  you'd  like  another  crust  o'  bread 
or  an  extra  half  pint  o'  water  you've  only  got  to  men- 
tion it.  When  she's  gone  I'll  have  a  hunt  for  that 
key,  so  as  you  can  go  back  to  your  father  and  help 
him  to  understand  his  law-books  better." 

He  strode  off  with  the  air  of  a  conqueror,  and  hav- 

114 


Lawyer  Quince 

ing  occasion  to  go  to  the  village  looked  in  at  the  shoe- 
maker's window  as  he  passed  and  smiled  broadly. 
For  years  Little  Haven  had  regarded  Mr.  Quince 


"*'  *  None  o*  yer  impudence,*  said  the  former." 

with  awe,  as  being  far  too  dangerous  a  man  for  the 
lay  mind  to  tamper  with,  and  at  one  stroke  the  farmer 
had  revealed  the  hollo wness  of  his  pretensions.  Only 

115 


Lawyer   Quince 

that  morning  the  wife  of  a  labourer  had  called  and 
asked  him  to  hurry  the  mending  of  a  pair  of  boots. 
She  was  a  voluble  woman,  and  having  overcome  her 
preliminary  nervousness  more  than  hinted  that  if  he 
gave  less  time  to  the  law  and  more  to  his  trade  it 
would  be  better  for  himself  and  everybody  else. 

Miss  Rose  accepted  her  lot  in  a  spirit  of  dutiful 
resignation,  and  on  Saturday  morning  after  her 
father's  admonition  not  to  forget  that  the  coach  left 
the  White  Swan  at  two  sharp,  set  off  to  pay  a  few 
farewell  visits.  By  half-past  twelve  she  had  finished, 
and  Lawyer  Quince  becoming  conscious  of  a  shadow 
on  his  work  looked  up  to  see  her  standing  before  the 
window.  He  replied  to  a  bewitching  smile  with  a 
short  nod  and  became  intent  upon  his  work  again. 

For  a  short  time  Celia  lingered,  then  to  his  aston- 
ishment she  opened  the  gate  and  walked  past  the  side 
of  tht  house  into  the  garden.  With  growing  aston- 
ishment he  observed  her  enter  his  tool-shed  and  close 
the  door  behind  her. 

For  ten  minutes  he  worked  on  and  then,  curiosity 
getting  the  better  of  him,  he  walked  slowly  to  the 
tool-shed  and,  opening  the  door  a  little  way,  peeped 
in.  It  was  a  small  shed,  crowded  with  agricultural 
implements.  The  floor  was  occupied  by  an  upturned 
wheelbarrow,  and  sitting  on  the  barrow,  with  her  soft 
cheek  leaning  against  the  wall,  sat  Miss  Rose  fast 
asleep.  Mr.  Quince  coughed  several  times,  each 

116 


Lawyer  Quince 


cough  being  louder  than  the  last,  and  then,  treading 
softly,  was  about  to  return  to  the  workshop  when  the 
girl  stirred  and  muttered  in  her  sleep.  At  first  she 
was  unintelligible,  then  he  distinctly  caught  the  words 
"idiot"  and  "blockhead." 

"She's  dreaming  of  somebody,"  said  Mr.  Quince 
to  himself  with  conviction.  "Wonder  who  it  is?" 

"Can't  see — a  thing — under — his — nose,"  mur- 
mured the  fair  sleeper. 

"Celia!"  said  Mr.  Quince,  sharply.     "Cellar 

He  took  a  hoe  from  the  wall  and  prodded  her  gen- 
tly with  the  handle.  A  singularly  vicious  expression 
marred  the  soft  features,  but  that  was  all. 

"Ce-lia!"  said  the  shoemaker,  who  feared  sun- 
stroke. 

"Fancy  if  he — had — a  moment's  common  sense," 
murmured  Celia,  drowsily,  "and  locked — the  door." 

Lawyer  Quince  dropped  the  hoe  with  a  clatter  and 
stood  regarding  her  open-mouthed.  He  was  a  care- 
ful man  with  his  property,  and  the  stout  door  boasted 
a  good  lock.  He  sped  to  the  house  on  tip-toe,  and 
taking  the  key  from  its  nail  on  the  kitchen  dresser  re- 
turned to  the  shed,  and  after  another  puzzled  glance 
at  the  sleeping  girl  locked  her  in. 

For  half  an  hour  he  sat  in  silent  enjoyment  of  the 
situation — enjoyment  which  would  have  been  in- 
creased if  he  could  have  seen  Mr.  Rose  standing  at 
the  gate  of  Holly  Farm,  casting  anxious  glances  up 

117 


Lawyer  Quince 

and  down  the  road.  Celia's  luggage  had  gone  down 
to  the  White  Swan,  and  an  excellent  cold  luncheon 
was  awaiting  her  attention  in  the  living-room. 

Half-past  one  came  and  no  Celia,  and  five  minutes 
later  two  farm  labourers  and  a  boy  lumbered  off  in 
different  directions  in  search  of  the  missing  girl,  with 
instructions  that  she  was  to  go  straight  to  the  White 
Swan  to  meet  the  coach.  The  farmer  himself  walked 
down  to  the  inn,  turning  over  in  his  mind  a  heated 
lecture  composed  for  the  occasion,  but  the  coach  came 
and,  after  a  cheerful  bustle  and  the  consumption  of 
sundry  mugs  of  beer,  sped  on  its  way  again. 

He  returned  home  in  silent  consternation,  seeking 
in  vain  for  a  satisfactory  explanation  of  the  mystery. 
For  a  robust  young  woman  to  disappear  in  broad  day- 
light and  leave  no  trace  behind  her  was  extraordinary. 
Then  a  sudden  sinking  sensation  in  the  region  of  the 
waistcoat  and  an  idea  occurred  simultaneously. 

He  walked  down  to  the  village  again,  the  idea 
growing  steadily  all  the  way.  Lawyer  Quince  was 
hard  at  work,  as  usual,  as  he  passed.  He  went  by 
the  window  three  times  and  gazed  wistfully  at  the 
cottage.  Coming  to  the  conclusion  at  last  that  two 
heads  were  better  than  one  in  such  a  business,  he 
walked  on  to  the  mill  and  sought  Mr.  Hogg. 

"That's  what  it  is,"  said  the  miller,  as  he  breathed 
his  suspicions.  '"I  thought  all  along  Lawyer  Quince 
would  have  the  laugh  of  you.  He's  wonderful  deep. 

118 


Lawyer   Quince 

Now,  let's  go  to  work  cautious  like.    Try  and  look 
as  if  nothing  had  happened." 


"  I  thought  all  along  Lawyer  Quince  would  hare  the  laugh  of  you.** 

Mr.  Rose  tried. 

"Try  agin,"  said  the  miller,  with  some  severity. 
"Get  the  red  out  o'  your  face  and  let  your  eyes  go 

119 


Lawyer   guince 


back  and  don't  look  as  though  you're  going  to  bite 
somebody." 

Mr.  Rose  swallowed  an  angry  retort,  and  with  an 
attempt  at  careless  ease  sauntered  up  the  road  with 
the  miller  to  the  shoemaker's.  Lawyer  Quince  was 
still  busy,  and  looked  up  inquiringly  as  they  passed 
before  him. 

"I  s'pose,"  said  the  diplomatic  Mr.  Hogg,  who  was 
well  acquainted  with  his  neighbour's  tidy  and  method- 
ical habits — "I  s'pose  you  couldn't  lend  me  your 
barrow  for  half  an  hour?  The  wheel's  off  mine." 

Mr.  Quince  hesitated,  and  then  favoured  him  with 
a  glance  intended  to  remind  him  of  his  scurvy  be- 
haviour three  days  before. 

"You  can  have  it,"  he  said  at  last,  rising. 

Mr.  Hogg  pinched  his  friend  in  his  excitement, 
and  both  watched  Mr.  Quince  with  bated  breath  as 
he  took  long,  slow  strides  toward  the  tool-shed.  He 
tried  the  door  and  then  went  into  the  house,  and  even 
before  his  reappearance  both  gentlemen  knew  only 
too  well  what  was  about  to  happen.  Red  was  all  too 
poor  a  word  to  apply  to  Mr.  Rose's  countenance  as 
the  shoemaker  came  toward  them,  feeling  in  his  waist- 
coat pocket  with  hooked  fingers  and  thumb,  while 
Mr.  Hogg's  expressive  features  were  twisted  into  an 
appearance  of  rosy  appreciation. 

"Did  you  want  the  barrow  very  particular?"  in- 
quired the  shoemaker,  in  a  regretful  voice, 

1 20 


Lawyer   Quince 

"Very  particular,"  said  Mr.  Hogg. 

Mr.  Quince  went  through  the  performance  of  fee* 
ing  in  all  his  pockets,  and  then  stood  meditative'^ 
rubbing  his  chin. 

"The  door's  locked,"  he  said,  slowly,  "and  what 
I've  done  with  that  there  key " 

"You  open  that  door,"  vociferated  Mr.  Rose,  "else 
I'll  break  it  in.  You've  got  my  daughter  in  that  shed 
and  I'm  going  to  have  her  out." 

"Your  daughter?"  said  Mr.  Quince,  with  an  air 
of  faint  surprise.  "What  should  she  be  doing  in  my 
shed?" 

"You  let  her  out,"  stormed  Mr.  Rose,  trying  to 
push  past  him. 

"Don't  trespass  on  my  premises,"  said  Lawyer 
Quince,  interposing  his  long,  gaunt  frame.  "If  you 
want  that  door  opened  you'll  have  to  wait  till  my  boy 
Ned  comes  home.  I  expect  he  knows  where  to  find 
the  key." 

Mr.  Rose's  hands  fell  limply  by  his  side  and  his 
tongue,  turning  prudish,  refused  its  office.  He 
turned  and  stared  at  Mr.  Hogg  in  silent  consterna- 
tion. 

"Never  known  him  to  be  beaten  yet,"  said  that 
admiring  weather-cock. 

"Ned's  been  away  three  days,"  said  the  shoemaker, 
*'but  I  expect  him  home  soon." 

Mr.  Rose  made  a  strange  noise  in  his  throat  and 
121 


Lawyer   Quince 

then,  accepting  his  defeat,  set  off  at  a  rapid  pace  in 
the  direction  of  home.  In  a  marvellously  short  space 
of  time,  considering  his  age  and  figure,  he  was  seen 
returning  with  Ned  Quince,  flushed  and  dishevelled, 
walking  by  his  side. 

"Here  he  is,"  said  the  farmer.  "Now  where's 
that  key?" 

Lawyer  Quince  took  his  son  by  the  arm  and  led 
him  into  the  house,  from  whence  they  almost  imme- 
diately emerged  with  Ned  waving  the  key. 

"I  thought  it  wasn't  far,"  said  the  sapient  Mr. 
Hogg. 

Ned  put  the  key  in  the  lock  and  flinging  the  door 
open  revealed  Celia  Rose,  blinking  and  confused  in 
the  sudden  sunshine.  She  drew  back  as  she  saw 
her  father  and  began  to  cry  with  considerable  fer- 
vour. 

"How  did  you  get  in  that  shed,  miss?"  demanded 
her  parent,  stamping. 

Miss  Rose  trembled. 

"I — I  went  there,"  she  sobbed.  "I  didn't  want  to 
go  away." 

"Well,  you'd  better  stay  there,"  shouted  the  over- 
wrought Mr.  Rose.  "I've  done  with  you.  A  girl 
that  'ud  turn  against  her  own  father  I — I " 

He  drove  his  right  fist  into  his  left  palm  and 
stamped  out  into  the  road.  Lawyer  Quince  and  Mr. 
Hogg,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  followed. 

122 


Lawyer  Quince 

"The  laugh's  agin  you,  farmer,"  said  the  latter 
gentleman,  taking  his  arm. 


•  How  did  you  get  in  that  ihed  ? '  demanded  her  parent." 


Mr.  Rose  shook  him  off. 
'Better  make  the  best  of  it,"  continued  the  peace- 


maker. 


123 


Lawyer  Quince 

"She's  a  girl  to  be  proud  of,"  said  Lawyer  Quince, 
keeping  pace  with  the  farmer  on  the  other  side.  "She's 
got  a  head  that's  worth  yours  and  mine  put  together, 
with  Hogg's  thrown  in  as  a  little  makeweight." 

"And  here's  the  White  Swan,"  said  Mr.  Hogg, 
who  had  a  hazy  idea  of  a  compliment,  "and  all  of  us 
as  dry  as  a  bone.  Why  not  all  go  in  and  have  a  glass 
to  shut  folks'  mouths?" 

"And  cry  quits,"  said  the  shoemaker. 

"And  let  bygones  be  bygones,"  said  Mr.  Hogg, 
taking  the  farmer's  arm  again. 

Mr.  Rose  stopped  and  shook  his  head  obstinately, 
and  then,  under  the  skilful  pilotage  of  Mr.  Hogg, 
was  steered  in  the  direction  of  the  hospitable  doors 
of  the  White  Swan.  He  made  a  last  bid  for  liberty 
on  the  step  and  then  disappeared  inside.  Lawyer 
Quince  brought  up  the  rear. 


124 


BREAKING    A    SPELL 


BREAKING    A    SPELL 

ITCHCRAFT?"  said  the  old  man, 
thoughtfully,  as  he  scratched  his  scanty 
whiskers.  No,  I  ain't  heard  o'  none  in 
these  parts  for  a  long  time.  There  used  to  be  a  little 
of  it  about  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  there  was  some 
talk  of  it  arter  I'd  growed  up,  but  Claybury  folk 
never  took  much  count  of  it.  The  last  bit  of  it  I 
remember  was  about  forty  years  ago,  and  that  wasn't 
so  much  witchcraft  as  foolishness. 

There  was  a  man  in  this  place  then — Joe  Barlcomb 
by  name — who  was  a  firm  believer  in  it,  and  'e  used 
to  do  all  sorts  of  things  to  save  hisself  from  it.  He 
was  a  new-comer  in  Claybury,  and  there  was  such  a 
lot  of  it  about  in  the  parts  he  came  from  that  the 
people  thought  o'  nothing  else  hardly. 

He  was  a  man  as  got  'imself  very  much  liked  at 
fust,  especially  by  the  old  ladies,  owing  to  his  being 
so  perlite  to  them,  that  they  used  to  'old  'im  up  for 
an  example  to  the  other  men,  and  say  wot  nice,  pretty 
ways  he  'ad.  Joe  Barlcomb  was  everything  at  fust, 
but  when  they  got  to  'ear  that  his  perliteness  was  be- 
cause 'e  thought  'arf  of  'em  was  witches,  and  didn't 
know  which  'arf,  they  altered  their  minds. 

127 


Breaking  a  Spell 


In  a  month  or  two  he  was  the  laughing-stock  of 
the  place;  but  wot  was  worse  to  'im  than  that  was  that 
he'd  made  enemies  of  all  the  old  ladies.  Some  of  'em 
was  free-spoken  women,  and  'e  couldn't  sleep  for 
thinking  of  the  'arm  they  might  do  'im. 

He  was  terrible  uneasy  about  it  at  fust,  but,  as 
nothing  'appened  and  he  seemed  to  go  on  very  pros- 


"  He  got  'imself  very  much  liked,  especially  by  the  old  ladies." 

perous-like,  'e  began  to  forget  'is  fears,  when  all  of  a 
sudden  'e  went  'ome  one  day  and  found  'is  wife  in 
bed  with  a  broken  leg. 

She  was  standing  on  a  broken  chair  to  reach  some* 
thing  down  from  the  dresser  when  it  'appened,  and 
it  was  pointed  out  to  Joe  Barlcomb  that  it  was  a  thing 
anybody  might  ha'  done  without  being  bewitched ;  but 

128 


Breaking  a  Spell 


he  said  'e  knew  better,  and  that  they'd  kept  that 
broken  chair  for  standing  on  for  years  and  years  to 
save  the  others,  and  nothing  'ad  ever  'appened  afore. 

In  less  than  a  week  arter  that  three  of  his  young 
'uns  was  down  with  the  measles,  and,  'is  wife  being 
laid  up,  he  sent  for  'er  mother  to  come  and  nurse  'em. 
It's  as  true  as  I  sit  'ere,  but  that  pore  old  lady  'adn't 
been  in  the  house  two  hours  afore  she  went  to  bed 
with  the  yellow  jaundice. 

Joe  Barlcomb  went  out  of  'is  mind  a'most.  He'd 
never  liked  'is  wife's  mother,  and  he  wouldn't  'ave 
had  'er  in  the  house  on'y  'e  wanted  her  to  nurse  'is 
wife  and  children,  and  when  she  came  and  laid  up  and 
wanted  waiting  on  'e  couldn't  dislike  her  enough. 

He  was  quite  certain  all  along  that  somebody  was 
putting  a  spell  on  'im,  and  when  'e  went  out  a  morn- 
ing or  two  arterward  and  found  'is  best  pig  lying 
dead  in  a  corner  of  the  sty  he  gave  up  and,  going 
into  the  'ouse,  told  'em  all  that  they'd  'ave  to  die 
'cause  he  couldn't  do  anything  more  for  'em.  His 
wife's  mother  and  'is  wife  and  the  children  all  started 
crying  together,  and  Joe  Barlcomb,  when  'e  thought 
of  'is  pig,  he  sat  down  and  cried  too. 

He  sat  up  late  that  night  thinking  it  over,  and, 
arter  looking  at  it  all  ways,  he  made  up  'is  mind  to 
go  and  see  Mrs.  Prince,  an  old  lady  that  lived  all 
alone  by  'erself  in  a  cottage  near  Smith's  farm.  He'd 
set  'er  down  for  wot  he  called  a  white  witch,  which 

129 


Breaking  a  Spell 

is  the  best  kind  and  on'y  do  useful  things,  such  as 
charming  warts  away  or  telling  gals  about  their 
future  'usbands;  and  the  next  arternoon,  arter  telling 
'is  wife's  mother  that  fresh  air  and  travelling  was  the 
best  cure  for  the  yellow  jaundice,  he  set  off  to  see  7er. 


11  Mrs.  Prince  was  sitting  at  'cr  front  door  nursing  'er  three  cats." 

Mrs.  Prince  was  sitting  at  'er  front  door  nursing 
'er  three  cats  when  'e  got  there.  She  was  an  ugly, 
little  old  woman  with  piercing  black  eyes  and  a  hook 
nose,  and  she  'ad  a  quiet,  artful  sort  of  a  way  with 

130 


Breaking  a  Spell 

'er  that  made  'er  very  much  disliked.  One  thing  was 
she  was  always  making  fun  of  people,  and  for  another 
she  seemed  to  be  able  to  tell  their  thoughts,  and  that 
don't  get  anybody  liked  much,  especially  when  they 
don't  keep  it  to  theirselves.  She'd  been  a  lady's  maid 
all  'er  young  days,  and  it  was  very  'ard  to  be  taken 
for  a  witch  just  because  she  was  old. 

"Fine  day,  ma'am,"  ses  Joe  Barlcomb. 

"Very  fine,"  ses  Mrs.  Prince. 

"Being  as  I  was  passing,  I  just  thought  I'd  look 
in,"  ses  Joe  Barlcomb,  eyeing  the  cats. 

"Take  a  chair,"  ses  Mrs.  Prince,  getting  up  and 
dusting  one  down  with  'er  apron. 

Joe  sat  down.  "I'm  in  a  bit  o'  trouble,  ma'am," 
he  ses,  "and  I  thought  p'r'aps  as  you  could  help  me 
out  of  it.  My  pore  pig's  been  bewitched,  and  it's 
dead." 

"Bewitched?"  ses  Mrs.  Prince,  who'd  'card  of  'is 
ideas.  "Rubbish.  Don't  talk  to  me." 

"It  ain't  rubbish,  ma'am,"  ses  Joe  Barlcomb; 
"three  o'  my  children  is  down  with  the  measles,  my 
wife's  broke  'er  leg,  'er  mother  is  laid  up  in  my  little 
place  with  the  yellow  jaundice,  and  the  pig's  dead." 

"Wot,  another  one?"  ses  Mrs.  Prince. 

"No;  the  same  one,"  ses  Joe. 

"Well,  'ow  am  I  to  help  you?"  ses  Mrs.  Prince. 
"Do  you  want  me  to  come  and  nurse  'em?" 

"No,  no,"  ses  Joe,  starting  and  turning  pale;  "un- 


Breaking  a  Spell 

less  you'd  like  to  come  and  nurse  my  wife's  mother," 
he  ses,  arter  thinking  a  bit.  "I  was  hoping  that  you'd 
know  who'd  been  overlooking  me  and  that  you'd 
make  'em  take  the  spell  off." 

Mrs.  Prince  got  up  from  'er  chair  and  looked 
round  for  the  broom  she'd  been  sweeping  with,  but, 
not  finding  it,  she  set  down  agin  and  stared  in  a 
curious  sort  o'  way  at  Joe  Barlcomb. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  she  ses,  nodding.  "Fancy  you  guess- 
ing I  was  a  witch." 

"You  can't  deceive  me,"  ses  Joe;  "I've  'ad  too 
much  experience;  I  knew  it  the  fust  time  I  saw  you 
by  the  mole  on  your  nose." 

Mrs.  Prince  got  up  and  went  into  her  back-place, 
trying  her  'ardest  to  remember  wot  she'd  done  with 
that  broom.  She  couldn't  find  it  anywhere,  and  at 
last  she  came  back  and  sat  staring  at  Joe  for  so  long 
that  'e  was  'arf  frightened  out  of  his  life.  And  by- 
and-by  she  gave  a  'orrible  smile  and  sat  rubbing  the 
side  of  'er  nose  with  'er  finger. 

"If  I  help  you,"  she  ses  at  last,  "will  you  promise 
to  keep  it  a  dead  secret  and  do  exactly  as  I  tell  you? 
If  you  don't,  dead  pigs'll  be  nothing  to  the  misfor- 
tunes that  you  will  'ave." 

"I  will,"  ses  Joe  Barlcomb,  very  pale. 

"The  spell,"  ses  Mrs.  Prince,  holding  up  her  'ands 
and  shutting  'er  eyes,  "was  put  upon  you  by  a  man. 
It  is  one  out  of  six  men  as  is  jealous  of  you  because 

132 


Breaking  a  Spell 


you're  so  clever,  but  which  one  it  is  I  can't  tell  with- 
out your  assistance.    Have  you  got  any  money?" 
"A  little,"   ses  Joe,   anxious-like — "a  very  little. 

Wot   with    the   yellow   jaundice    and    other   things, 
j » 

"Fust  thing  to  do,"  ses  Mrs.  Prince,  still  with  her 
eyes  shut,  "you  go  up  to  the  Cauliflower  to-night;  the 
six  men'll  all  be  there,  and  you  must  buy  six  ha'pen- 
nies off  of  them;  one  each." 

"Buy  six  ha'pennies?"  ses  Joe,  staring  at  her. 

"Don't  repeat  wot  I  say,"  ses  Mrs.  Prince;  "it's 
unlucky.  You  buy  six  ha'pennies  for  a  shilling  each, 
without  saying  wot  it's  for.  You'll  be  able  to  buy 
'em  all  right  if  you're  civil." 

"It  seems  to  me  it  don't  need  much  civility  for 
that,"  ses  Joe,  pulling  a  long  face. 

"When  you've  got  the  ha'pennies,"  ses  Mrs. 
Prince,  "bring  'em  to  me  and  I'll  tell  you  wot  to  do 
with  'em.  Don't  lose  no  time,  because  I  can  see  that 
something  worse  is  going  to  'appen  if  it  ain't  pre- 
vented." 

"Is  it  anything  to  do  with  my  wife's  mother  getting 
worse?"  ses  Joe  Barlcomb,  who  was  a  careful  ma-n 
and  didn't  want  to  waste  six  shillings. 

"No,  something  to  you,"  ses  Mrs.  Prince. 

Joe  Barlcomb  went  cold  all  over,  and  then  he  put 
down  a  couple  of  eggs  he'd  brought  round  for  'er 
and  went  off  'ome  agin,  and  Mrs.  Prince  stood  in 

133 


Breaking  a  Spell 


the  doorway  with  a  cat  on  each  shoulder  and  watched 
'im  till  'e  was  out  of  sight. 

That  night  Joe  Barlcomb  came  up  to  this  'ere 
Cauliflower  public-house,  same  as  he'd  been  told,  and 
by-and-by,  arter  he  'ad  'ad  a  pint,  he  looked  round, 
and  taking  a  shilling  out  of  'is  pocket  put  it  on  the 
table,  and  he  ses,  "Who'll  give  me  a  ha'penny  for 
that?"  he  ses. 

None  of  'em  seemed  to  be  in  a  hurry.  Bill  Jones 
took  it  up  and  bit  it,  and  rang  it  on  the  table  and 
squinted  at  it,  and  then  he  bit  it  agin,  and  turned 
round  and  asked  Joe  Barlcomb  wot  was  wrong 
with  it. 

"Wrong?"  ses  Joe;  "nothing." 

Bill  Jones  put  it  down  agin.  "You're  wide  awake, 
Joe,"  he  ses,  "but  so  am  I." 

"Won't  nobody  give  me  a  ha'penny  for  it?"  ses 
Joe,  looking  round. 

Then  Peter  Lamb  came  up,  and  he  looked  at  it 
and  rang  it,  and  at  last  he  gave  Joe  a  ha'penny  for  it 
and  took  it  round,  and  everybody  'ad  a  look  at  it. 

"It  stands  to  reason  it's  a  bad  'un,"  ses  Bill  Jones, 
"but  it's  so  well  done  I  wish  as  I'd  bought  it." 

"H-s-h!"  ses  Peter  Lamb;  "don't  let  the  landlord 
'ear  you." 

The  landlord  'ad  just  that  moment  come  in,  and 
Peter  walked  up  and  ordered  a  pint,  and  took  his  ten- 
pence  change  as  bold  as  brass.  Arter  that  Joe  Barl« 

134 


Breaking  a  Spell 

comb  bought  five  more  ha'pennies  afore  you  could 
wink  a'most,  and  every  man  wot  sold  one  went  up 
to  the  bar  and  'ad  a  pint  and  got  tenpence  change,  and 
drank  Joe  Rarlcomb's  health. 


"  He  took  it  round,  and  everybody  'ad  a  look  at  it." 

"There  seems  to  be  a  lot  o'  money  knocking  about 
to-night,"  ses  the  landlord,  as  Sam  Martin,  the  last 
of  'em,  was  drinking  'is  pint. 

Sam  Martin  choked  and  put  'is  pot  down  on  the 
counter  with  a  bang,  and  him  and  the  other  five  was 

135 


Breaking  a  Spell 


out  o*  that  door  and  sailing  up  the  road  with  their 
tenpences  afore  the  landlord  could  get  his  breath. 
He  stood  .\n  the  bar  scratching  his  'ead  and  staring, 
but  he  couldn't  understand  it  a  bit  till  a  man  wot  was 
too  late  to  sell  his  ha'penny  up  and  told  'im  all  about 
it.  The  fuss  'e  made  was  terrible.  The  shillings  was 
in  a  little  heap  on  a  shelf  at  the  back  o'  the  bar,  and 
he  did  all  sorts  o'  things  to  'em  to  prove  that  they  was 
bad,  and  threatened  Joe  Barlcomb  with  the  police. 
At  last,  however,  'e  saw  wot  a  fool  he  was  making 
of  himself,  and  arter  nearly  breaking  his  teeth  'e 
dropped  them  into  a  drawer  and  stirred  'em  up  with 
the  others. 

Joe  Barlcomb  went  round  the  next  night  to  see 
Mrs.  Prince,  and  she  asked  'im  a  lot  o'  questions 
about  the  men  as  'ad  sold  'im  the  ha'pennies. 

"The  fust  part  'as  been  done  very  well,"  she 
ses,  nodding  her  'ead  at  'im;  "if  you  do  the  sec- 
ond part  as  well,  you'll  soon  know  who  your  en- 
emy is." 

"Nothing'll  bring  the  pig  back,"  ses  Joe. 

"There's  worse  misfortunes  than  that,  as  I've  told 
you,"  ses  Mrs.  Prince,  sharply.  "Now,  listen  to  wot 
I'm  going  to  say  to  you.  When  the  clock  strikes 
twelve  to-night " 

"Our  clock  don't  strike,"  ses  Joe. 

"Then  you  must  borrow  one  that  does,"  ses  Mrs. 
Prince,  "and  when  it  strikes  twelve  you  must  go  round 

136 


Breaking  a  Spell 


to  each  o'  them  six  men  and  sell  them  a  ha'penny  for 
a  shilling." 

Joe  Barlcomb  looked  at  'er.  "'Ow?"  he  ses,  short- 
like. 

"Same  way  as  you  sold  'em  a  shilling  for  a  ha'- 
penny," ses  Mrs.  Prince;  "it  don't  matter  whether 
they  buy  the  ha'pennies  or  not.  All  you've  got  to  do 
is  to  go  and  ask  'em,  and  the  man  as  makes  the  most 
fuss  is  the  man  that  'as  put  the  trouble  on  you." 

"It  seems  a  roundabout  way  o'  going  to  work,"  ses 
Joe. 

"Wot!"  screams  Mrs.  Prince,  jumping  up  and 
waving  her  arms  about.  "Wot!  Go  your  own  way; 
I'll  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  you.  And  don't 
blame  me  for  anything  that  happens.  It's  a  very  bad 
thing  to  come  to  a  witch  for  advice  and  then  not  to  do 
as  she  tells  you.  You  ought  t©  know  that." 

"I'll  do  it,  ma'am,"  ses  Joe  Barlcomb,  trembling. 

"You'd  better,"  ses  Mrs.  Prince;  "and  mind — not 
a  word  to  anybody." 

Joe  promised  her  agin,  and  'e  went  off  and  bor- 
rered  a  clock  from  Albert  Price,  and  at  twelve  o'clock 
that  night  he  jumped  up  out  of  bed  and  began  to 
dress  'imself  and  pretend  not  to  'ear  his  wife  when 
she  asked  'im  where  he  was  going. 

It  was  a  dark,  nasty  sort  o'  night,  blowing  and 
raining,  and,  o'  course,  everybody  'ad  gone  to  bed 
long  since.  The  fust  cottage  Joe  came  to  was  Bill 

137 


Breaking  a  Spell 


Jones's,  and,  knowing  Bill's  temper,  he  stood  for 
some  time  afore  he  could  make  up  'is  mind  to  knock; 
but  at  last  he  up  with  'is  stick  and  banged  away  at 
the  door. 

A  minute  arterward  he  'card  the  bedroom  winder 
pushed  open,  and  then  Bill  Jones  popped  his  'ead  out 
and  called  to  know  wot  was  the  matter  and  who  it 
was. 

"It's  me — Joe  Barlcomb,"  ses  Joe,  "and  I  want  to 
speak  to  you  very  partikler." 

"Well,  speak  away,"  ses  Bill.  "You  go  into  the 
back  room,"  he  ses,  turning  to  his  wife. 

"Whaffor?"  ses  Mrs.  Jones. 

"'Cos  I  don't  know  wot  Joe  is  going  to  say,"  ses 
Bill.  "You  go  in  now,  afore  I  make  you." 

His  wife  went  off  grumbling,  and  then  Bill  told 
Joe  Barlcomb  to  hurry  up  wot  he'd  got  to  say  as  'e 
'adn't  got  much  on  and  the  weather  wasn't  as  warm 
as  it  might  be. 

"I  sold  you  a  shilling  for  a  ha'penny  last  night, 
Bill,"  ses  Joe. 

"Do  you  want  to  sell  any  more?"  ses  Bill  Jones, 
putting  his  'and  down  to  where  'is  trouser  pocket 
ought  to  be. 

"Not  exactly  that,"  ses  Joe  Barlcomb.  "This  time 
I  want  you  to  sell  me  a  shilling  for  a  ha'penny." 

Bill  leaned  out  of  the  winder  and  stared  down  at 
Joe  Barlcomb,  and  then  he  ses,  in  a  choking  voice, 

138 


Breaking  a  Spell 


"Is  that  wot  you've  come  disturbing  my  sleep  for 
at  this  time  o'  night?"  he  ses. 

"I  must  'ave  it,  Bill,"  ses  Joe. 

"Well,  if  you'll  wait  a  moment,"  ses  Bill,  trying 
to  speak  perlitely,  "I'll  come  down  and  give  it  to 
you." 

Joe  didn't  like  'is  tone  of  voice,  but  he  waited,  and 
all  of  a  sudden  Bill  Jones  came  out  o'  that  door  like 
a  gun  going  off  and  threw  'imself  on  Joe  Barlcomb. 
Both  of  'em  was  strong  men,  and  by  the  time  they'd 
finished  they  was  so  tired  they  could  'ardly  stand. 
Then  Bill  Jones  went  back  to  bed,  and  Joe  Barlcomb, 
arter  sitting  down  on  the  doorstep  to  rest  'imself, 
went  off  and  knocked  up  Peter  Lamb. 

Peter  Lamb  was  a  little  man  and  no  good  as  a 
fighter,  but  the  things  he  said  to  Joe  Barlcomb  as  he 
leaned  out  o'  the  winder  and  shook  'is  fist  at  him  was 
'arder  to  bear  than  blows.  He  screamed  away  at  the 
top  of  'is  voice  for  ten  minutes,  and  then  'e  pulled  the 
winder  to  with  a  bang  and  went  back  to  bed. 

Joe  Barlcomb  was  very  tired,  but  he  walked  on  to 
Jasper  Potts's  'ouse,  trying  'ard  as  he  walked  to  de- 
cide which  o'  the  fust  two  'ad  made  the  most  fuss. 
Arter  he  'ad  left  Jasper  Potts  'e  got  more  puzzled 
than  ever,  Jasper  being  just  as  bad  as  the  other  two, 
and  Joe  leaving  'im  at  last  in  the  middle  of  loading 
Ms  gun. 

By  the  time  he'd  made  'is  last  call — at  Sam  Mar- 

139 


Breaking  a  Spell 


tin's — it  was  past  three  o'clock,  and  he  could  no  more 
tell  Mrs.  Prince  which  'ad  made  the  most  fuss  than 
'e  could  fly.  There  didn't  seem  to  be  a  pin  to  choose 
between  'em,  and,  'arf  worried  out  of  'is  life,  he  went 
straight  on  to  Mrs.  Prince  and  knocked  'er  up  to  tell 
'er.  She  thought  the  'ouse  was  afire  at  fust,  and  came 
screaming  out  o'  the  front  door  in  'er  bedgown,  and 
when  she  found  out  who  it  was  she  was  worse  to  deal 
with  than  the  men  'ad  been. 

She  'ad  quieted  down  by  the  time  Joe  went  round 
to  see  'er  the  next  evening,  and  asked  'im  to  describe 
exactly  wot  the  six  men  'ad  done  and  said.  She  sat 
listening  quite  quiet  at  fust,  but  arter  a  time  she 
scared  Joe  by  making  a  odd,  croupy  sort  o'  noise  in 
'er  throat,  and  at  last  she  got  up  and  walked  into  the 
back-place.  She  was  there  a  long  time  making  funny 
noises,  and  at  last  Joe  walked  toward  the  door  on  tip- 
toe and  peeped  through  the  crack  and  saw  'er  in  a 
sort  o'  fit,  sitting  in  a  chair  with  'er  arms  folded  acrost 
her  bodice  and  rocking  'erself  up  and  down  and 
moaning.  Joe  stood  as  if  'e'd  been  frozen  a'most, 
and  then  'e  crept  back  to  'is  seat  and  waited,  and  when 
she  came  into  the  room  agin  she  said  as  the  trouble 
'ad  all  been  caused  by  Bill  Jones.  She  sat  still  for 
nearly  'arf  an  hour,  thinking  'ard,  and  then  she 
turned  to  Joe  and  ses : 

"Can  you  read?"  she  ses. 

"No,"  ses  Joe,  wondering  wot  was  coming  next. 
140 


Breaking  a  Spell 


"That's  all  right,  then,"  she  ses,  "because  if  you 
could  I  couldn't  do  wot  I'm  going  to  do." 

"That  shows  the  'arm  of  eddication,"  ses  Joe.  "I 
never  did  believe  in  it." 


She  sat  listening  quite  quiet  at  fust." 


Mrs.  Prince  nodded,  and  then  she  went  and  got 
a  bottle  with  something  in  it  which  looked  to  Joe  like 
gin,  and  arter  getting  out  'er  pen  and  ink  and  printing 
some  words  on  a  piece  o'  paper  she  stuck  it  on  the 
bottle,  and  sat  looking  at  Joe  and  thinking. 

"Take  this  up  to  the  Cauliflower,"  she  ses,  "make 
241 


Breaking  a  Spell 

friends  with  Bill  Jones,  and  give  him  as  much  beer 
as  he'll  drink,  and  give  'im  a  little  o'  this  gin  in  each 
mug.  If  he  drinks  it  the  spell  will  be  broken,  and 
you'll  be  luckier  than  you  'ave  ever  been  in  your  life 
afore.  When  Vs  drunk  some,  and  not  before,  leave 
the  bottle  standing  on  the  table." 

Joe  Barlcomb  thanked  'er,  and  with  the  bottle  in 
'is  pocket  went  off  to  the  Cauliflower,  whistling.  Bill 
Jones  was  there,  and  Peter  Lamb,  and  two  or  three 
more  of  'em,  and  at  fust  they  said  some  pretty  'ard 
things  to  him  about  being  woke  up  in  the  night. 

"Don't  bear  malice,  Bill,"  ses  Joe  Barlcomb;  "'ave 
ft  pint  with  me." 

He  ordered  two  pints,  and  then  sat  down  along- 
side o'  Bill,  and  in  five  minutes  they  was  like  brothers. 

"'Ave  a  drop  o'  gin  in  it,  Bill,"  he  ses,  taking  the 
bottle  out  of  'is  pocket. 

Bill  thanked  'im  and  had  a  drop,  and  then,  thought- 
ful-like,  he  wanted  Joe  to  'ave  some  in  his  too,  but 
Joe  said  no,  he'd  got  a  touch  o'  toothache,  and  it  was 
bad  for  it. 

"I  don't  mind  'aving  a  drop  in  my  beer,  Joe,"  ses 
Peter  Lamb. 

"Not  to-night,  mate,"  ses  Joe;  "it's  all  for  Bill.  I 
bought  it  on  purpose  for  'im." 

Bill  shook  'ands  with  him,  and  when  Joe  called  for 
another  pint  and  put  some  more  gin  in  it  he  said  that 
'e  was  the  noblest-'arted  man  that  ever  lived. 

142 


Breaking  a  Spell 


"You  wasn't  saying  so  'arf  an  hour  ago,"  ses  Peter 
Lamb. 

'"Cos  I  didn't  know  'im  so  well  then,"  ses  Bill 
Jones. 

"You  soon  change  your  mind,  don't  you?"  ses 
Peter. 

Bill  didn't  answer  'im.  He  was  leaning  back  on 
the  bench  and  staring  at  the  bottle  as  if  'e  couldn't 
believe  his  eyesight.  His  face  was  all  white  and  shin- 
ing, and  'is  hair  as  wet  as  if  it  'ad  just  been  dipped  in 
a  bucket  o'  water. 

"See  a  ghost,  Bill?"  ses  Peter,  looking  at  'im. 

Bill  made  a  'orrible  noise  in  his  throat,  and  kept  on 
staring  at  the  bottle  till  they  thought  'e'd  gone  crazy. 
Then  Jasper  Potts  bent  his  'ead  down  and  began  to 
read  out  loud  wot  was  on  the  bottle.  "P-o-i — Poisow 
FOR  BILL  JONES,"  he  ses,  in  a  voice  as  if  'e  couldn't 
believe  it. 

You  might  'ave  heard  a  pin  drop.  Everybody 
turned  and  looked  at  Bill  Jones,  as  he  sat  there  trem- 
bling all  over.  Then  those  that  could  read  took  up 
the  bottle  and  read  it  out  loud  all  over  agin. 

"Pore  Bill,"  ses  Peter  Lamb.  "I  'ad  a  feeling 
come  over  me  that  something  was  wrong." 

"You're  a  murderer,"  ses  Sam  Martin,  catching 
'old  of  Joe  Barlcomb.  "You'll  be  'ung  for  this. 
Look  at  pore  Bill,  cut  off  in  'is  prime." 

"Run  for  the  doctor,"  ses  someone. 

143 


Breaking  a  Spell 


Two  of  'em  ran  off  as  'ard  as  they  could  go,  and 
then  the  landlord  came  round  the  bar  and  asked  Bill 
to  go  and  die  outside,  because  'e  didn't  want  to  be 
brought  into  it.  Jasper  Potts  told  'im  to  clear  off, 
and  then  he  bent  down  and  asked  Bill  where  the 
pain  was. 

"I  don't  think  he'll  'ave  much  pain,"  ses  Peter 
Lamb,  who  always  pretended  to  know  a  lot  more  than 
other  people.  "It'll  soon  be  over,  Bill." 

"We've  all  got  to  go  some  day,"  ses  Sam  Martin. 

"Better  to  die  young  than  live  to  be  a  trouble  to 
yourself,"  ses  Bob  Harris. 

To  'ear  them  talk  everybody  seemed  to  think  that 
Bill  Jones  was  in  luck;  everybody  but  Bill  Jones  'im- 
self,  that  is. 

"I  ain't  fit  to  die,"  he  ses,  shivering.  "You  don't 
know  'ow  bad  I've  been." 

"Wot  'ave  you  done,  Bill?"  ses  Peter  Lamb,  in  a 
soft  voice.  "If  it'll  ease  your  feelings  afore  you  go 
to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it,  we're  all  friends  here." 

Bill  groaned. 

"And  it's  too  late  for  you  to  be  punished  for  any- 
thing," ses  Peter,  arter  a  moment. 

Bill  Jones  groaned  agin,  and  then,  shaking  'is  'ead, 
began  to  w'isper  'is  wrong-doings.  When  the  doctor 
came  in  'arf  an  hour  arterward  all  the  men  was  as 
quiet  as  mice,  and  pore  Bill  was  still  w'ispering  as 
'ard  as  he  could  w'isper. 

144 


Breaking  a  Spell 


The  doctor  pushed  'em  out  of  the  way  in  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  'e  bent  over  Bill  and  felt  'is  pulse  and 
looked  at  'is  tongue.  Then  he  listened  to  his  'art, 
and  in  a  puzzled  way  smelt  at  the  bottle,  which  Jas- 
per Potts  was  a-minding  of,  and  wetted  'is  finger  and 
tasted  it. 


"  The  doctor  felt  'is  pulse  and  looked  at   is  tongue." 

"Somebody's  been  making  a  fool  of  you  and  me 
too,"  he  ses,  in  a  angry  voice.  "It's  only  gin,  and 
very  good  gin  at  that.  Get  up  and  go  home." 

It  all  came  out  next  morning,  and  Joe  Barlcomb 
was  the  laughing-stock  of  the  place.  Most  people 

145 


Breaking  a  Spell 

said  that  Mrs.  Prince  'ad  done  quite  right,  and  they 
'oped  that  it  ud  be  a  lesson  to  him,  but  nobody  ever 
talked  much  of  witchcraft  in  Claybury  agin.  One 
thing  was  that  Bill  Jones  wouldn't  'ave  the  word  used 
in  'is  hearing. 


146 


ESTABLISHING    RELATIONS 


ESTABLISHING    RELATIONS 

MR.  RICHARD  CATESBY,  second  officer 
of  the  ss.  Wizard,  emerged  from  the  dock- 
gates  in  high  good-humour  to  spend  an 
evening  ashore.  The  bustle  of  the  day  had  departed, 
and  the  inhabitants  of  Wapping,  in  search  of  cool- 
ness and  fresh  air,  were  sitting  at  open  doors  and 
windows  indulging  in  general  conversation  with  any- 
body within  earshot. 

Mr.  Catesby,  turning  into  Bashford's  Lane,  lost 
in  a  moment  all  this  life  and  colour.  The  hum  of  dis- 
tant voices  certainly  reached  there,  but  that  was  all, 
for  Bashford's  Lane,  a  retiring  thoroughfare  facing 
a  blank  dock  wall,  capped  here  and  there  by  towering 
spars,  set  an  example  of  gentility  which  neighbouring 
streets  had  long  ago  decided  crossly  was  impossible 
for  ordinary  people  to  follow.  Its  neatly  grained 
shutters,  fastened  back  by  the  sides  of  the  windows, 
gave  a  pleasing  idea  of  uniformity,  while  its  white 
steps  and  polished  brass  knockers  were  suggestive  of 
almost  a  Dutch  cleanliness. 

Mr.  Catesby,  strolling  comfortably  along,  stopped 
suddenly  for  another  look  at  a  girl  who  was  standing 
in  the  ground-floor  window  of  No.  5.  He  went  on  a 

149 


Establishing  Relations 

few  paces  and  then  walked  back  slowly,  trying  to  look 
as  though  he  had  forgotten  something.  The  girl  was 
still  there,  and  met  his  ardent  glances  unmoved:  a 
fine  girl,  with  large,  dark  eyes,  and  a  complexion 
which  was  the  subject  of  much  scandalous  discussion 
among  neighbouring  matrons. 

"It  must  be  something  wrong  with  the  glass,  or  else 
it's  the  bad  light,"  said  Mr.  Catesby  to  himself;  "no 
girl  is  so  beautiful  as  that." 

He  went  by  again  to  make  sure.  The  object  of  his 
solicitude  was  still  there  and  apparently  unconscious 
of  his  existence.  He  passed  very  slowly  and  sighed 
deeply. 

"You've  got  it  at  last,  Dick  Catesby,"  he  said,  sol- 
emnly; "fair  and  square  in  the  most  dangerous  part 
of  the  heart.  It's  serious  this  time." 

He  stood  still  on  the  narrow  pavement,  pondering, 
and  then,  in  excuse  of  his  flagrant  misbehaviour,  mur- 
mured, "It  was  meant  to  be,"  and  went  by  again. 
This  time  he  fancied  that  he  detected  a  somewhat 
supercilious  expression  in  the  dark  eyes — a  faint  rais- 
ing of  well-arched  eyebrows. 

His  engagement  to  wait  at  Aldgate  Station  for  the 
second-engineer  and  spend  an  evening  together  was 
dismissed  as  too  slow  to  be  considered.  He  stood  for 
some  time  in  uncertainty,  and  then  turning  slowly  into 
the  Beehive,  which  stood  at  the  corner,  went  into  the 
private  bar  and  ordered  a  glass  of  beer. 

ISO 


Establishing  Relations 

He  was  the  only  person  in  the  bar,  and  the  land- 
lord, a  stout  man  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  was  the  soul  of 
affability.  Mr.  Catesby,  after  various  general  re- 


"  Mr.  Catesby  made  a  few  inquiries." 

marks,  made  a  few  inquiries  about  an  uncle  aged  five 
minutes,  whom  he  thought  was  living  in  Bashford's 
Lane. 

"I  don't  know  'im,"  said  the  landlord. 


Establishing  Relations 

"I  had  an  idea  that  he  lived  at  No.  5,"  said 
.Catesby. 

The  landlord  shook  his  head.  "That's  Mrs.  True- 
fitt's  house,"  he  said,  slowly. 

Mr.  Catesby  pondered.  "Truefitt,  Truefitt,"  he 
repeated;  "what  sort  of  a  woman  is  she?" 

"Widder-woman,"  said  the  landlord;  "she  lives 
there  with  'er  daughter  Prudence." 

Mr.  Catesby  said  "Indeed!"  and  being  a  good  lis- 
tener learned  that  Mrs.  Truefitt  was  the  widow  of  a 
master-lighterman,  and  that  her  son,  Fred  Truefitt, 
after  an  absence  of  seven  years  in  New  Zealand,  was 
now  on  his  way  home.  He  finished  his  glass  slowly 
and,  the  landlord  departing  to  attend  to  another  cus- 
tomer, made  his  way  into  the  street  again. 

He  walked  along  slowly,  picturing  as  he  went  the 
home-coming  of  the  long-absent  son.  Things  were 
oddly  ordered  in  this  world,  and  Fred  Truefitt  would 
probably  think  nothing  of  his  brotherly  privileges. 
He  wondered  whether  he  was  like  Prudence.  He 
wondered 

"By  Jove,  I'll  do  it!"  he  said,  recklessly,  as  he 
turned.  "Now  for  a  row." 

He  walked  back  rapidly  to  Bashford's  Lane,  and 
without  giving  his  courage  time  to  cool  plied  the 
knocker  of  No.  5  briskly. 

The  door  was  opened  by  an  elderly  woman,  thin, 
and  somewhat  querulous  in  expression.  Mr.  Catesby 

152 


Establishing  Relations 

had  just  time  to  notice  this,  and  then  he  flung  his  arm 
round  her  waist,  and  hailing  her  as  "Mother!"  sa- 
luted her  warmly. 

The  faint  scream  of  the  astounded  Mrs.  Truefitt 
brought  her  daughter  hastily  into  the  passage.  Mr. 
Catesby's  idea  was  ever  to  do  a  thing  thoroughly, 
and,  relinquishing  Mrs.  Truefitt,  he  kissed  Prudence 
with  all  the  ardour  which  a  seven-years'  absence  might 
be  supposed  to  engender  in  the  heart  of  a  devoted 
brother.  In  return  he  received  a  box  on  the  ears 
which  made  his  head  ring. 

"He's  been  drinking,"  gasped  the  dismayed  Mrs. 
Truefitt. 

"Don't  you  know  me,  mother?"  inquired  Mr. 
Richard  Catesby,  in  grievous  astonishment. 

"He's  mad,"  said  her  daughter. 

"Am  I  so  altered  that  you  don't  know  me,  Pru- 
dence?" inquired  Mr.  Catesby-,  with  pathos.  "Don't 
you  know  your  Fred?" 

"Go  out,"  said  Mrs.  Truefitt,  recovering;  "go  out 
at  once." 

Mr.  Catesby  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  con- 
sternation. 

"I  know  I've  altered,"  he  said,  at  last,  "but  I'd  no 
idea " 

"If  you  don't  go  out  at  once  I'll  send  for  the  po- 
lice," said  the  elder  woman,  sharply.  "Prudence, 
scream!" 

153 


Establishing  Relations 

"I'm  not  going  to  scream,"  said  Prudence,  eyeing 
the  intruder  with  great  composure.  "I'm  not  afraid 
of  him." 

Despite  her  reluctance  to  have  a  scene — a  thing 
which  was  strongly  opposed  to  the  traditions  of  Bash- 
ford's  Lane — Mrs.  Truefitt  had  got  as  far  as  the 
doorstep  in  search  of  assistance,  when  a  sudden  ter- 
rible thought  occurred  to  her:  Fred  was  dead,  and 
the  visitor  had  hit  upon  this  extraordinary  fashion  of 
breaking  the  news  gently. 

"Come  into  the  parlour,"  she  said,  faintly. 

Mr.  Catesby,  suppressing  his  surprise,  followed 
her  into  the  room.  Prudence,  her  fine  figure  erect 
and  her  large  eyes  meeting  his  steadily,  took  up  a 
position  by  the  side  of  her  mother. 

"You  have  brought  bad  news?"  inquired  the 
latter. 

"No,  mother,"  said  Mr.  Catesby,  simply,  "only 
myself,  that's  all." 

Mrs.  Truefitt  made  a  gesture  of  impatience,  and 
her  daughter,  watching  him  closely,  tried  to  remem- 
ber something  she  had  once  read  about  detecting  in- 
sanity by  the  expression  of  the  eyes.  Those  of  Mr. 
Catesby  were  blue,  and  the  only  expression  in  them 
at  the  present  moment  was  one  of  tender  and  respect- 
ful admiration. 

"When  did  you  see  Fred  last?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Truefitt,  making  another  effort. 

154 


Establishing  Relations 

"Mother,"  said  Mr.  Catesby,  with  great  pathos, 
"don't  you  know  me  ?" 

"He  has  brought  bad  news  of  Fred,"  said  Mrs. 
Truefitt,  turning  to  her  daughter;  "I  am  sure  he 
has." 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Mr.  Catesby,  with 
a  bewildered  glance  from  one  to  the  other.  "I  am 
Fred.  Am  I  much  changed?  You  look  the  same  as 
you  always  did,  and  it  seems  only  yesterday  since  I 
kissed  Prudence  good-bye  at  the  docks.  You  were 
crying,  Prudence." 

Miss  Truefitt  made  no  reply;  she  gazed  at  him  un- 
flinchingly and  then  bent  toward  her  mother. 

"He  is  mad,"  she  whispered;  "we  must  try  and  get 
him  out  quietly.  Don't  contradict  him." 

"Keep  close  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Truefitt,  who  had  a 
great  horror  of  the  insane.  "If  he  turns  violent  open 
the  window  and  scream.  I  thought  he  had  brought 
bad  news  of  Fred.  How  did  he  know  about  him?" 

Her  daughter  shook  her  head  and  gazed  curiously 
at  their  afflicted  visitor.  She  put  his  age  down  at 
twenty-five,  and  she  could  not  help  thinking  it  a  pity 
that  so  good-looking  a  young  man  should  have  lost 
his  wits. 

"Bade  Prudence  good-bye  at  the  docks,"  continued 
Mr.  Catesby,  dreamily.  "You  drew  me  behind  a  pile 
of  luggage,  Prudence,  and  put  your  head  on  my 
shoulder.  I  have  thought  of  it  ever  since." 

155 


Establishing  Relations 

Miss  Truefitt  did  not  deny  it,  but  she  bit  her  lips, 
and  shot  a  sharp  glance  at  him.  She  began  to  think 
that  her  pity  was  uncalled-for. 


"  I'm  just  going  as  far  as  the  corner.** 

"Tell   me    all   that's    happened    since    I've   been 
away,"  said  Mr.  Catesby. 

Mrs.  Truefitt  turned  to  her  daughter  and  whis- 
156 


Establishing  Relations 

pered.  It  might  have  been  merely  the  effect  of  a 
guilty  conscience,  but  the  visitor  thought  that  he 
caught  the  word  "policeman." 

"I'm  just  going  as  far  as  the  corner,"  said  Mrs. 
Truefitt,  rising,  and  crossing  hastily  to  the  door. 

The  young  man  nodded  affectionately  and  sat  in 
doubtful  consideration  as  the  front  door  closed  be- 
hind her.  "Where  is  mother  going?"  he  asked,  in  a 
voice  which  betrayed  a  little  pardonable  anxiety. 

"Not  far,  I  hope,"  said  Prudence. 

"I  really  think,"  said  Mr.  Catesby,  rising — "I 
really  think  that  I  had  better  go  after  her.  At  her 
age " 

He  walked  into  the  small  passage  and  put  his  hand 
on  the  latch.  Prudence,  now  quite  certain  of  his  san- 
ity, felt  sorely  reluctant  to  let  such  impudence  go  un- 
punished. 

"Are  you  going?"  she  inquired. 

"I  think  I'd  better,"  said  Mr.  Catesby,  gravely. 
"Dear  mother " 

"You're  afraid,"  said  the  girl,  calmly. 

Mr.  Catesby  coloured  and  his  buoyancy  failed  him. 
He  felt  a  little  bit  cheap. 

"You  are  brave  enough  with  two  women,"  con- 
tinued the  girl,  disdainfully;  "but  you  had  better  ga 
if  you're  afraid." 

Mr.  Catesby  regarded  the  temptress  uneasily, 
"Would  you  like  me  to  stay?"  he  asked. 

157 


Establishing  Relations 

"I  ?"  said  Miss  Truefitt,  tossing  her  head.  "No, 
I  don't  want  you.  Besides,  you're  frightened." 

Mr.  Catesby  turned,  and  with  a  firm  step  made  his 
way  back  to  the  room;  Prudence,  with  a  half-smile, 
took  a  chair  near  the  door  and  regarded  her  prisoner 
with  unholy  triumph. 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  be  in  your  shoes,"  she  said, 
agreeably;  "mother  has  gone  for  a  policeman." 

"Bless  her,"  said  Mr.  Catesby,  fervently.  "What 
had  we  better  say  to  him  when  he  comes?" 

"You'll  be  locked  up,"  said  Prudence;  "and  it  will 
serve  you  right  for  your  bad  behaviour." 

Mr.  Catesby  sighed.  "It's  the  heart,"  he  said, 
gravely.  "I'm  not  to  blame,  really.  I  saw  you 
standing  in  the  window,  and  I  could  see  at  once  that 
you  were  beautiful,  and  good,  and  kind." 

"I  never  heard  of  such  impudence,"  continued 
Miss  Truefitt. 

"I  surprised  myself,"  admitted  Mr.  Catesby.  "In 
the  usual  way  I  am  very  quiet  and  well-behaved,  not 
to  say  shy." 

Miss  Truefitt  looked  at  him  scornfully.  "I  think 
that  you  had  better  stop  your  nonsense  and  go,"  she 
remarked. 

"Don't  you  want  me  to  be  punished?"  inquired  the 
other,  in  a  soft  voice. 

"I  think  that  you  had  better  go  while  you  can," 
said  the  girl,  and  at  that  moment  there  was  a  heavy 

158 


Establishing  Relations 

knock  at  the  front-door.  Mr.  Catesby,  despite  his 
assurance,  changed  colour;  the  girl  eyed  him  in  per- 
plexity. Then  she  opened  the  small  folding-doors 
at  the  back  of  the  room. 

"You're  only — stupid,"  she  whispered.  "Quick! 
Go  in  there.  I'll  say  you've  gone.  Keep  quiet,  and 
I'll  let  you  out  by-and-by." 

She  pushed  him  in  and  closed  the  doors.  From  his 
hiding-place  he  heard  an  animated  conversation  at  the 
street-door  and  minute  particulars  as  to  the  time 
which  had  elapsed  since  his  departure  and  the  direc- 
tion he  had  taken. 

"I  never  heard  such  impudence,"  said  Mrs.  True- 
fitt,  going  into  the  front-room  and  sinking  into  a 
chair  after  the  constable  had  taken  his  departure. 
"I  don't  believe  he  was  mad." 

"Only  a  little  weak  in  the  head,  I  think,"  said  Pru- 
dence, in  a  clear  voice.  "He  was  very  frightened 
after  you  had  gone;  I  don't  think  he  will  trouble  us 
again." 

"He'd  better  not,"  said  Mrs.  Truefitt,  sharply. 
"I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing — never." 

She  continued  to  grumble,  while  Prudence,  in  a 
low  voice,  endeavoured  to  soothe  her.  Her  efforts 
were  evidently  successful,  as  the  prisoner  was,  after 
a  time,  surprised  to  hear  the  older  woman  laugh — 
at  first  gently,  and  then  with  so  much  enjoyment  that 
her  daughter  was  at  some  pains  to  restrain  her.  He 


Establishing  Relations 

sat  in  patience  until  evening  deepened  into  night,  and 
a  line  of  light  beneath  the  folding-doors  announced 
the  lighting  of  the  lamp  in  the  front-room.  By  a 
pleasant  clatter  of  crockery  he  became  aware  that 
they  were  at  supper,  and  he  pricked  up  his  ears  as 
Prudence  made  another  reference  to  him. 

"If  he  comes  to-morrow  night  while  you  are  out 
I  sha'n't  open  the  door,"  she  said.  "You'll  be  back 
by  nine,  I  suppose." 

Mrs.  Truefitt  assented. 

"And  you  won't  be  leaving  before  seven,"  con- 
tinued Prudence.  "I  shall  be  all  right." 

Mr.  Catesby's  face  glowed  and  his  eyes  grew  ten- 
der; Prudence  was  as  clever  as  she  was  beautiful. 
The  delicacy  with  which  she  had  intimated  the  fact 
of  the  unconscious  Mrs.  Truefitt's  absence  on  the  fol- 
lowing evening  was  beyond  all  praise.  The  only  de- 
pressing thought  was  that  such  resourcefulness  sa- 
voured of  practice. 

He  sat  in  the  darkness  for  so  long  that  even  the 
proximity  of  Prudence  was  not  sufficient  amends  for 
the  monotony  of  it,  and  it  was  not  until  past  ten 
o'clock  that  the  folding-doors  were  opened  and  he 
stood  blinking  at  the  girl  in  the  glare  of  the  lamp. 

"Quick!"  she  whispered. 

Mr.  Catesby  stepped  into  the  lighted  room. 

"The  front-door  is  open,"  whispered  Prudence. 
"Make  haste.  I'll  close  it." 

160 


Establishing  Relations 

She  followed  him  to  the  door;  he  made  an  ineffec- 
tual attempt  to  seize  her  hand,  and  the  next  moment 
was  pushed  gently  outside  and  the  door  closed  behind 
him.  He  stood  a  moment  gazing  at  the  house,  and 
then  hastened  back  to  his  ship. 


"  I'll  go  and  put  on  a  clean  collar." 

"Seven  to-morrow,"  he  murmured;  "seven  to-mor- 
row. After  all,  there's  nothing  pays  in  this  world 
like  cheek — nothing." 

He  slept  soundly  that  night,  though  the  things  that 
the  second-engineer  said  to  him  about  wasting  a  hard- 
working man's  evening  would  have  lain  heavy  on  the 

161 


Establishing  Relations 

conscience  of  a  more  scrupulous  man.  The  only 
thing  that  troubled  him  was  the  manifest  intention  of 
his  friend  not  to  let  him  slip  through  his  fingers  on 
the  following  evening.  At  last,  in  sheer  despair  at 
his  inability  to  shake  him  off,  he  had  to  tell  him  that 
he  had  an  appointment  with  a  lady. 

"Well,  I'll  come,  too,"  said  the  other,  glowering  at 
him.  "It's  very  like  she'll  have  a  friend  with  her; 
they  generally  do." 

"I'll  run  round  and  tell  her,"  said  Catesby.  "I'd 
have  arranged  it  before,  only  I  thought  you  didn't 
care  about  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Female  society  is  softening,"  said  the  second- 
engineer.  "I'll  go  and  put  on  a  clean  collar." 

Catesby  watched  him  into  his  cabin  and  then, 
though  it  still  wanted  an  hour  to  seven,  hastily  quitted 
the  ship  and  secreted  himself  in  the  private  bar  of  the 
Beehive. 

He  waited  there  until  a  quarter  past  seven,  and 
then,  adjusting  his  tie  for  about  the  tenth  time  that 
evening  in  the  glass  behind  the  bar,  sallied  out  in  the 
direction  of  No.  5. 

He  knocked  lightly,  and  waited.  There  was  no 
response,  and  he  knocked  again.  When  the  fourth 
knock  brought  no  response,  his  heart  sank  within 
him  and  he  indulged  in  vain  speculations  as  to  the 
reasons  for  this  unexpected  hitch  in  the  programme. 
He  knocked  again,  and  then  the  door  opened  sud- 

162 


Establishing  Relations 

denly  and  Prudence,  with  a  little  cry  of  surprise  and 
dismay,  backed  into  the  passage. 

"You !"  she  said,  regarding  him  with  large  eyes. 

Mr.  Catesby  bowed  tenderly,  and  passing  in  closed 
the  door  behind  him. 

"I  wanted  to  thank  you  for  your  kindness  last 
night,"  he  said,  humbly. 

"Very  well,"  said  Prudence;  "good-bye." 

Mr.  Catesby  smiled.  "It'll  take  me  a  long  time 
to  thank  you  as  I  ought  to  thank  you,"  he  murmured. 
"And  then  I  want  to  apologise;  that'll  take  time, 
too." 

"You  had  better  go,"  said  Prudence,  severely; 
"kindness  is  thrown  away  upon  you.  I  ought  to  have 
let  you  be  punished." 

"You  are  too  good  and  kind,"  said  the  other, 
drifting  by  easy  stages  into  the  parlour. 

Miss  Truefitt  made  no  reply,  but  following  him 
into  the  room  seated  herself  in  an  easy-chair  and  sat 
coldly  watchful. 

"How  do  you  know  what  I  am?"  she  inquired. 

"Your  face  tells  me,"  said  the  infatuated  Richard. 
"I  hope  you  will  forgive  me  for  my  rudeness  last 
night.  It  was  all  done  on  the  spur  of  the  moment." 

"I  am  glad  you  are  sorry,"  said  the  girl,  softening. 

"All  the  same,  if  I  hadn't  done  it,"  pursued  Mr. 
Catesby,  "I  shouldn't  be  sitting  here  talking  to  you 
now." 

163 


Establishing  Relations 

Miss  Truefitt  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  and  then  low- 
ered them  modestly  to  the  ground.  "That  is  true," 
she  said,  quietly. 

"And  I  would  sooner  be  sitting  here  than  any- 
where," pursued  Catesby.  "That  is,"  he  added, 
rising,  and  taking  a  chair  by  her  side,  "except 
here." 

Miss  Truefitt  appeared  to  tremble,  and  made  as 
though  to  rise.  Then  she  sat  still  and  took  a  gentle 
peep  at  Mr.  Catesby  from  the  corner  of  her  eye. 

"I  hope  that  you  are  not  sorry  that  I  am  here?" 
said  that  gentleman. 

Miss  Truefitt  hesitated.    "No,"  she  said,  at  last 

"Are  you — are  you  glad?"  asked  the  modest  Rich- 
ard. 

Miss  Truefitt  averted  her  eyes  altogether.  "Yes," 
she  said,  faintly. 

A  strange  feeling  of  solemnity  came  over  the  tri- 
umphant Richard.  He  took  the  hand  nearest  to  him 
and  pressed  it  gently. 

"I — I  can  hardly  believe  in  my  good  luck,"  he 
murmured. 

"Good  luck?"  said  Prudence,  innocently. 

"Isn't  it  good  luck  to  hear  you  say  that  you  are 
glad  I'm  here?"  said  Catesby. 

"You're  the  best  judge  of  that,"  said  the  girl,  with- 
drawing her  hand.  "It  doesn't  seem  to  me  much  to 
be  pleased  about." 

164 


Establishing  Relations 

Mr.  Catesby  eyed  her  in  perplexity,  and  was  about 
to  address  another  tender  remark  to  her  when  she 
was  overcome  by  a  slight  fit  of  coughing.  At  the 
same  moment  he  started  at  the  sound  of  a  shuffling 
footstep  in  the  passage.  Somebody  tapped  at  the 
door. 

"Yes?"  said  Prudence. 

"Can't  find  the  knife-powder,  miss,"  said  a  harsh 
voice.  The  door  was  pushed  open  and  disclosed  a 
tall,  bony  woman  of  about  forty.  Her  red  arms  were 
bare  to  the  elbow,  and  she  betrayed  several  evidences 
of  a  long  and  arduous  day's  charing. 

"It's  in  the  cupboard,"  said  Prudence.  "Why, 
what's  the  matter,  Mrs.  Porter?" 

Mrs.  Porter  made  no  reply.  Her  mouth  was  wide 
open  and  she  was  gazing  with  starting  eyeballs  at  Mr. 
Catesby. 

"Joe!"  she  said,  in  a  hoarse  whisper.     "Joe!" 

Mr.  Catesby  gazed  at  her  in  chilling  silence.  Miss 
Truefitt,  with  an  air  of  great  surprise,  glanced  from 
one  to  the  other. 

"Jo<f/"said  Mrs.  Porter  again.  "Ain't  you  goin' 
to  speak  to  me?" 

Mr.  Catesby  continued  to  gaze  at  her  in  speechless 
astonishment.  She  skipped  clumsily  round  the  table 
and  stood  before  him  with  her  hands  clasped. 

"Where  'ave  you  been  all  this  long  time?"  she  de- 
manded, in  a  higher  key. 

165 


Establishing  Relations 

"You — you've  made  a  mistake,"  said  the  bewil- 
dered Richard. 

"Mistake?"  wailed  Mrs.  Porter.  "Mistake!  Oh, 
where's  your  'art?" 

Before  he  could  get  out  of  her  way  she  flung  her 
arms  round  the  horrified  young  man's  neck  and  em- 
braced him  copiously.  Over  her  bony  left  shoulder 
the  frantic  Richard  met  the  ecstatic  gaze  of  Miss 
Truefitt,  and,  in  a  flash,  he  realised  the  trap  into 
which  he  had  fallen. 

11  Mrs.  Porter!"  *aid  Prudence. 

"It's  my  'usband,  miss,"  said  the  Amazon,  reluc- 
tantly releasing  the  flushed  and  dishevelled  Richard; 
"'e  left  me  and  my  five  eighteen  months  ago.  For 
eighteen  months  I  'aven't  'ad  a  sight  of  'is  blessed 
face." 

She  lifted  the  hem  of  her  apron  to  her  face  and 
broke  into  discordant  weeping. 

"Don't  cry,"  said  Prudence,  softly;  "I'm  sure  he 
isn't  worth  it." 

Mr.  Catesby  looked  at  her  wanly.  He  was  beyond 
further  astonishment,  and  when  Mrs.  Truefitt  entered 
the  room  with  a  laudable  attempt  to  twist  her  features 
into  an  expression  of  surprise,  he  scarcely  noticed  her. 

"It's  my  Joe,"  said  Mrs.  Porter,  simply. 

"Good  gracious!"  said  Mrs.  Truefitt.  "Well, 
you've  got  him  now;  take  care  he  doesn't  run  away 
from  you  again." 

166 


Establishing  Relations 

"I'll  look  after  that,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Porter, 
with  a  glare  at  the  startled  Richard. 

"She's  very  forgiving,"  said  Prudence.  "She 
kissed  him  just  now." 


"  I'll  look  after  that,  ma'am." 

"Did  she,  though,"  said  the  admiring  Mrs.  True- 
fitt.     "I  wish  I'd  been  here." 

"I  can  do  it  agin,  ma'am,"  said  the  obliging  Mrs. 
Porter. 

167 


Establishing  Relations 

"If  you  come  near  me  again "  said  the  breath- 
less Richard,  stepping  back  a  pace. 

"I  shouldn't  force  his  love,"  said  Mrs.  Truefitt; 
"it'll  come  back  in  time,  I  dare  say." 

"I'm  sure  he's  affectionate,"  said  Prudence. 

Mr.  Catesby  eyed  his  tormentors  in  silence;  the 
faces  of  Prudence  and  her  mother  betokened  much 
innocent  enjoyment,  but  the  austerity  of  Mrs.  Por- 
ter's visage  was  unrelaxed. 

"Better  let  bygones  be  bygones,"  said  Mrs.  True- 
fitt; "he'll  be  sorry  by-and-by  for  all  the  trouble  he 
has  caused." 

"He'll  be  ashamed  of  himself — if  you  give  him 
time,"  added  Prudence. 

Mr.  Catesby  had  heard  enough ;  he  took  up  his  hat 
and  crossed  to  the  door. 

"Take  care  he  doesn't  run  away  from  you  again," 
repeated  Mrs.  Truefitt. 

"I'll  see  to  that,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Porter,  taking 
him  by  the  arm.  "Come  along,  Joe." 

Mr.  Catesby  attempted  to  shake  her  off,  but  in 
vain,  and  he  ground  his  teeth  as  he  realised  the  ab- 
surdity of  his  position.  A  man  he  could  have  dealt 
with,  but  Mrs.  Porter  was  invulnerable.  Sooner  than 
walk  down  the  road  with  her  he  preferred  the  sallies 
of  the  parlour.  He  walked  back  to  his  old  position 
by  the  fireplace,  and  stood  gazing  moodily  at  the 
floor. 

168 


Establishing  Relations 

Mrs.  Truefitt  tired  of  the  sport  at  last.  She  wanted 
her  supper,  and  with  a  significant  glance  at  her 
daughter  she  beckoned  the  redoubtable  and  reluctant 
Mrs.  Porter  from  the  room.  Catesby  heard  the 
kitchen-door  close  behind  them,  but  he  made  no  move. 
Prudence  stood  gazing  at  him  in  silence. 

"If  you  want  to  go,"  she  said,  at  last,  "now  is  your 
chance." 

Catesby  followed  her  into  the  passage  without  a 
word,  and  waited  quietly  while  she  opened  the  door. 
Still  silent,  he  put  on  his  hat  and  passed  out  into  the 
darkening  street.  He  turned  after  a  short  distance 
for  a  last  look  at  the  house  and,  with  a  sudden  sense 
of  elation,  saw  that  she  was  standing  on  the  step.  He 
hesitated,  and  then  walked  slowly  back. 

"Yes?"  said  Prudence. 

"I  should  like  to  tell  your  mother  that  I  am  sorry," 
he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"It  is  getting  late,"  said  the  girl,  softly;  "but,  if 
you  really  wish  to  tell  her — Mrs.  Porter  will  not  be 
here  to-morrow  night." 

She  stepped  back  into  the  house  and  the  door 
closed  behind  her. 


169 


THE    CHANGING    NUMBERS 


THE    CHANGING    NUMBERS 

THE  tall  clock  in  the  corner  of  the  small  liv- 
ing-room had  just  struck  eight  as  Mr. 
Samuel  Gunnill  came  stealthily  down  the 
winding  staircase  and,  opening  the  door  at  the  foot, 
stepped  with  an  appearance  of  great  care  and  humil- 
ity into  the  room.  He  noticed  with  some  anxiety 
that  his  daughter  Selina  was  apparently  engrossed  in 
her  task  of  attending  to  the  plants  in  the  window,  and 
that  no  preparations  whatever  had  been  made  for 
breakfast. 

Miss  Gunnill's  horticultural  duties  seemed  inter- 
minable. She  snipped  off  dead  leaves  with  painstak- 
ing precision,  and  administered  water  with  the  jealous 
care  of  a  druggist  compounding  a  prescription;  then, 
with  her  back  still  toward  him,  she  gave  vent  to  a 
sigh  far  too  intense  in  its  nature  to  have  reference  to 
such  trivialities  as  plants.  She  repeated  it  twice,  and 
at  the  second  time  Mr.  Gunnill,  almost  without  his 
knowledge,  uttered  a  deprecatory  cough.  ' 

His  daughter  turned  with  alarming  swiftness  and, 
holding  herself  very  upright,  favoured  him  with  a 
glance  in  which  indignation  and  surprise  were  very 
fairly  mingled. 

X73 


The  Changing  Numbers 

"That  white  one — that  one  at  the  end,"  said  Mr. 
Gunnill,  with  an  appearance  of  concentrated  inter- 
est, "that's  my  fav'rite." 

Miss  Gunnill  put  her  hands  together,  and  a  look 
of  infinite  long-suffering  came  upon  her  face,  but  she 
made  no  reply. 

"Always  has  been,"  continued  Mr.  Gunnill, 
feverishly,  "from  a — from  a  cutting." 

"Bailed  out,"  said  Miss  Gunnill,  in  a  deep  and 
thrilling  voice;  "bailed  out  at  one  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  brought  home  singing  loud  enough  for 
half-a-dozen,  and  then  talking  about  flowers!" 

Mr.  Gunnill  coughed  again. 

"I  was  dreaming,"  pursued  Miss  Gunnill,  plain- 
tively, "sleeping  peacefully,  when  I  was  awoke  by  a 
horrible  noise." 

"That  couldn't  ha'  been  me,"  protested  her  father. 
"I  was  only  a  bit  cheerful.  It  was  Benjamin  Ely's 
birthday  yesterday,  and  after  we  left  the  Lion  they 
started  singing,  and  I  just  hummed  to  keep  'em 
company.  I  wasn't  singing,  mind  you,  only  hum- 
ming— when  up  comes  that  interfering  Cooper  and 
takes  me  off." 

Miss  Gunnill  shivered,  and  with  her  pretty  cheek 
in  her  hand  sat  by  the  window  the  very  picture  of 
despondency.  "Why  didn't  he  take  the  others?" 
she  inquired. 

"Ah!"   said   Mr.   Gunnill,   with   great   emphasis, 

174 


The  Changing   Numbers 

"that's  what  a  lot  more  of  us  would  like  to  know. 
P'r'aps  if  you'd  been  more  polite  to  Mrs.  Cooper, 
instead  o'  putting  it  about  that  she  looked  young 
enough  to  be  his  mother,  it  wouldn't  have  happened." 

His  daughter  shook  her  head  impatiently  and,  on 
Mr.  Gunnill  making  an  allusion  to  breakfast,  ex- 
pressed surprise  that  he  had  got  the  heart  to  eat  any- 
thing. Mr.  Gunnill  pressing  the  point,  however,  she 
arose  and  began  to  set  the  table,  the  undue  care  with 
which  she  smoothed  out  the  creases  of  the  table- 
cloth, and  the  mathematical  exactness  with  which  she 
placed  the  various  articles,  all  being  so  many  extra 
smarts  in  his  wound.  When  she  finally  placed  on 
the  table  enough  food  for  a  dozen  people  he  began 
to  show  signs  of  a  little  spirit. 

"Ain't  you  going  to  have  any?"  he  demanded,  as 
Miss  Gunnill  resumed  her  seat  by  the  window. 

"Me?"  said  the  girl,  with  a  shudder.  "Break- 
fast? The  disgrace  is  breakfast  enough  for  me. 
I  couldn't  eat  a  morsel ;  it  would  choke  me." 

Mr.  Gunnill  eyed  her  over  the  rim  of  his  teacup. 
"I  come  down  an  hour  ago,"  he  said,  casually,  as  he 
helped  himself  to  some  bacon. 

Miss  Gunnill  started  despite  herself.  "Oh!"  she 
said,  listlessly. 

"And  I  see  you  making  a  very  good  breakfast  all 
by  yourself  in  the  kitchen,"  continued  her  father,  in 
a  voice  not  free  from  the  taint  of  triumph. 

175 


The  Changing  Numbers 

The  discomfited  Selina  rose  and  stood  regarding 
him;  Mr.  Gunnill,  after  a  vain  attempt  to  meet  her 
gaze,  busied  himself  with  his  meal. 

"The  idea  of  watching  every  mouthful  I  eat!" 
said  Miss  Gunnill,  tragically;  "the  idea  of  complain- 
ing because  I  have  some  breakfast!  I'd  never 
have  believed  it  of  you,  never!  It's  shameful! 
Fancy  grudging  your  own  daughter  the  food  she 
eats !" 

Mr.  Gunnill  eyed  her  in  dismay.  In  his  confusion 
he  had  overestimated  the  capacity  of  his  mouth,  and 
he  now  strove  in  vain  to  reply  to  this  shameful  per- 
version of  his  meaning.  His  daughter  stood  watch- 
ing him  with  grief  in  one  eye  and  calculation  in  the 
other,  and,  just  as  he  had  put  himself  into  a  position 
to  exercise  his  rights  of  free  speech,  gave  a  pathetic 
sniff  and  walked  out  of  the  room. 

She  stayed  indoors  all  day,  but  the  necessity  of 
establishing  his  innocence  took  Mr.  Gunnill  out  a 
great  deal.  His  neighbours,  in  the  hope  of  further 
excitement,  warmly  pressed  him  to  go  to  prison 
rather  than  pay  a  fine,  and  instanced  the  example  of 
an  officer  in  the  Salvation  Army,  who,  in  very  differ- 
ent circumstances,  had  elected  to  take  that  course. 
Mr.  Gunnill  assured  them  that  only  his  known  antip- 
athy to  the  airmy,  and  the  fear  of  being  regarded  as 
one  of  its  followers,  prevented  him  from  doing  so. 
He  paid  instead  a  fine  of  ten  shillings,  and  after 

176 


The  Changing  Numbers 

listening  to  a  sermon,  in  which  his  silver  hairs  served 
as  the  text,  was  permitted  to  depart. 

His   feeling  against   Police-constable    Cooper  in- 


••  The  constable  watched  him  with  the  air  of  a  proprietor." 

creased  with  the  passing  of  the  days.  The  constable 
watched  him  with  the  air  of  a  proprietor,  and  Mrs. 
Cooper's  remark  that  "her  husband  had  had  his  eye 

177 


The  Changing   Numbers 

upon  him  for  a  long  time,  and  that  he  had  better 
be  careful  for  the  future,"  was  faithfully  retailed  to 
him  within  half  an  hour  of  its  utterance.  Convivial 
friends  counted  his  cups  for  him;  teetotal  friends 
more  than  hinted  that  Cooper  was  in  the  employ  of 
his  good  angel. 

Miss  Gunnill's  two  principal  admirers  had  an  ar- 
duous task  to  perform.  They  had  to  attribute  Mr. 
Gunnill's  disaster  to  the  vindictiveness  of  Cooper, 
and  at  the  same  time  to  agree  with  his  daughter  that 
it  served  him  right.  Between  father  and  daughter 
they  had  a  difficult  time,  Mr.  Gunnill's  sensitiveness 
having  been  much  heightened  by  his  troubles. 

"Cooper  ought  not  to  have  taken  you,"  said  Her- 
bert Sims  for  the  fiftieth  time. 

"He  must  ha'  seen  you  like  it  dozens  o'  times  be- 
fore," said  Ted  Drill,  who,  in  his  determination  not 
to  be  outdone  by  Mr.  Sims,  was  not  displaying  his 
usual  judgment.  "Why  didn't  he  take  you  then? 
That's  what  you  ought  to  have  asked  the  magis- 
trate." 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Mr.  Gunnill,  with 
an  air  of  cold  dignity. 

"Why,"  said  Mr.  Drill,  "what  I  mean  is— look 
at  that  night,  for  instance,  when " 

He  broke  off  suddenly,  even  his  enthusiasm  not 
being  proof  against  the  extraordinary  contortions  of 
visage  in  which  Mr.  Gunnill  was  indulging. 

178 


The  Changing  Numbers 

"When?"  prompted  Selina  and  Mr.  Sims  together. 
Mr.  Gunnill,  after  first  daring  him  with  his  eye,  fol- 
lowed suit. 

"That  night  at  the  Crown,"  said  Mr.  Drill,  awk- 
wardly. "You  know;  when  you  thought  that  Joe 
Baggs  was  the  landlord.  You  tell  'em;  you  tell  it 
best.  I've  roared  over  it." 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  driving  at,"  said  the 
harassed  Mr.  Gunnill,  bitterly. 

"H'm!"  said  Mr.  Drill,  with  a  weak  laugh.  "I've 
been  mixing  you  up  with  somebody  else." 

Mr.  Gunnill,  obviously  relieved,  said  that  he  ought 
to  be  more  careful,  and  pointed  out,  with  some  feel- 
ing, that  a  lot  of  mischief  was  caused  that  way. 

"Cooper  wants  a  lesson,  that's  what  he  wants," 
said  Mr.  Sims,  valiantly.  "He'll  get  his  head  broke 
one  of  these  days." 

Mr.  Gunnill  acquiesced.  "  I  remember  when  I 
was  on  the  Peewit"  he  said,  musingly,  "one  time 
when  we  were  lying  at  Cardiff,  there  was  a  policeman 
there  run  one  of  our  chaps  in,  and  two  nights  after- 
ward another  of  our  chaps  pushed  the  policeman 
down  in  the  mud  and  ran  off  with  his  staff  and  his 
helmet." 

Miss  Gunnill's  eyes  glistened.  "What  hap- 
pened?" she  inquired. 

"He  had  to  leave  the  force,"  replied  her  father; 
"he  couldn't  stand  the  disgrace  of  it.  The  chap  that 

179 


The  Changing   Numbers 

pushed  him  over  was  quite  a  little  chap,  too.    About 
the  size  of  Herbert  here." 

Mr.  Sims  started. 

"Very  much  like  him  in  face,  too,"  pursued  Mr. 
Gunnill;  "daring  chap  he  was." 

Miss  Gunnill  sighed.  "I  wish  he  lived  in  Little- 
stow,"  she  said,  slowly.  "I'd  give  anything  to  take 
that  horrid  Mrs.  Cooper  down  a  bit.  Cooper  would 
be  the  laughing-stock  of  the  town." 

Messrs.  Sims  and  Drill  looked  unhappy.  It  was 
hard  to  have  to  affect  an  attitude  of  indifference  in 
the  face  of  Miss  Gunnill's  lawless  yearnings;  to  stand 
before  her  as  respectable  and  law-abiding  cravens. 
Her  eyes,  large  and  sorrowful,  dwelt  on  them  both. 

"If  I — I  only  get  a  chance  at  Cooper!"  murmured 
Mr.  Sims,  vaguely. 

To  his  surprise,  Mr.  Gunnill  started  up  from  his 
chair  and,  gripping  his  hand,  shook  it  fervently.  He 
looked  round,  and  Selina  was  regarding  him  with  a 
glance  so  tender  that  he  lost  his  head  completely. 
Before  he  had  recovered  he  had  pledged  himself  to 
lay  the  helmet  and  truncheon  of  the  redoubtable  Mr. 
Cooper  at  the  feet  of  Miss  Gunnill;  exact  date  not 
specified. 

"Of  course,  I  shall  have  to  wait  my  opportunity," 
he  said,  at  last. 

"You  wait  as  long  as  you  like,  my  boy,"  said  the 
thoughtless  Mr.  Gunnill. 

180 


The   Changing   Numbers 

Mr.  Sims  thanked  him. 

"Wait  till  Cooper's  an  old  man,"  urged  Mr.  Drill. 

Miss  Gunnill,  secretly  disappointed  at  the  lack  of 
boldness  and  devotion  on  the  part  of  the  latter  gentle- 
man, eyed  his  stalwart  frame  indignantly  and  ac- 
cused him  of  trying  to  make  Mr.  Sims  as  timid  as 
himself.  She  turned  to  the  valiant  Sims  and  made 
herself  so  agreeable  to  that  daring  blade  that  Mr. 
Drill,  a  prey  to  violent  jealousy,  bade  the  company 
a  curt  good-night  and  withdrew. 

He  stayed  away  for  nearly  a  week,  and  then  one 
evening  as  he  approached  the  house,  carrying  a 
carpet-bag,  he  saw  the  door  just  opening  to  admit 
the  fortunate  Herbert.  He  quickened  his  pace  and 
arrived  just  in  time  to  follow  him  in.  Mr.  Sims,  who 
bore  under  his  arm  a  brown-paper  parcel,  seemed 
somewhat  embarrassed  at  seeing  him,  and  after  a 
brief  greeting  walked  into  the  room,  and  with  a 
triumphant  glance  at  Mr.  Gunnill  and  Selina  placed 
his  burden  on  the  table. 

"You — you  ain't  got  it?"  said  Mr.  Gunnill,  lean- 
ing forward. 

"How  foolish  of  you  to  run  such  a  risk!"  said 
Selina. 

"I  brought  it  for  Miss  Gunnill,"  said  the  young 
man,  simply.  He  unfastened  the  parcel,  and  to  the 
astonishment  of  all  present  revealed  a  policeman's 
helmet  and  a  short  boxwood  truncheon. 

181 


The   Changing   Numbers 

"You — you're  a  wonder,"  said  the  gloating  Mr. 
Gunnill.  "Look  at  it,  Ted !" 

Mr.  Drill  was  looking  at  it;  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  the  head  of  Mr.  Cooper  itself  could  have 
caused  him  more  astonishment.  Then  his  eyes  sought 


"  He  saw  the  door  just  opening  to  admit  the  fortunate  Herbert." 

those  of  Mr.  Sims,  but  that  gentleman  was  gazing 
tenderly  at  the  gratified  but  shocked  Selina. 

"How  ever  did  you  do  it?"  inquired  Mr.  Gun- 
nill. 

"Came  behind  him  and  threw  him  down,"  said 
Mr.  Sims,  nonchalantly.  "He  was  that  scared  I  be- 

182 


The   Changing   Numbers 

lieve  I  could  have  taken  his  boots  as  well  if  I'd 
wanted  them." 

Mr.  Gunnill  patted  him  on  the  back.  "I  fancy  I 
can  see  him  running  bare-headed  through  the  town 
calling  for  help,"  he  said,  smiling. 

Mr.  Sims  shook  his  head.  "Like  as  not  it'll  be 
kept  quiet  for  the  credit  of  the  force,"  he  said, 
slowly,  "unless,  of  course,  they  discover  who  did  it." 

A  slight  shade  fell  on  the  good-humoured 
countenance  of  Mr.  Gunnill,  but  it  was  chased  away 
almost  immediately  by  Sims  reminding  him  of  the 
chaff  of  Cooper's  brother-constables. 

"And  you  might  take  the  others  away,"  said  Mr. 
Gunnill,  brightening;  "you  might  keep  on  doing  it." 

Mr.  Sims  said  doubtfully  that  he  might,  but 
pointed  out  that  Cooper  would  probably  be  on  his 
guard  for  the  future. 

"Yes,  you've  done  your  share,"  said  Miss  Gun- 
nill, with  a  half-glance  at  Mr.  Drill,  who  was  still 
gazing  in  a  bewildered  fashion  at  the  trophies.  "You 
can  come  into  the  kitchen  and  help  me  draw  some 
beer  if  you  like." 

Mr.  Sims  followed  her  joyfully,  and  reaching 
down  a  jug  for  her  watched  her  tenderly  as  she  drew 
the  beer.  All  women  love  valour,  but  Miss  Gunnill, 
gazing  sadly  at  the  slight  figure  of  Mr.  Sims,  could 
not  help  wishing  that  Mr.  Drill  possessed  a  little  of 
his  spirit. 

183 


The  Changing  Numbers 

She  had  just  finished  her  task  when  a  tremendous 
bumping  noise  was  heard  in  the  living-room,  and 
the  plates  on  the  dresser  were  nearly  shaken  off  their 
shelves. 

"  What's  that?  "  she  cried. 


"  Mr.  Sims  watched  her  tenderly  as  she  drew  the  beer." 

They  ran  to  the  room  and  stood  aghast  in  the 
doorway  at  the  spectacle  of  Mr.  Gunnill,  with  his 
clenched  fists  held  tightly  by  his  side,  bounding  into 
the  air  with  all  the  grace  of  a  trained  acrobat,  while 
Mr.  Drill  encouraged  him  from  an  easy-chair.  Mr. 

184 


The   Changing   Numbers 

Gunnill  smiled  broadly  as  he  met  their  astonished 
gaze,  and  with  a  final  bound  kicked  something  along 
the  floor  and  subsided  into  his  seat  panting. 

Mr.  Sims,  suddenly  enlightened,  uttered  a  cry  of 
dismay  and,  darting  under  the  table,  picked  up  what 
had  once  been  a  policeman's  helmet.  Then  he 
snatched  a  partially  consumed  truncheon  from  the 
fire,  and  stood  white  and  trembling  before  the  aston- 
ished Mr.  Gunnill. 

"What's  the  matter?"  inquired  the  latter. 

"You — you've  spoilt  'em,"  gasped  Mr.  Sims. 

"What  of  it?"  said  Mr.  Gunnill,  staring. 

"I  was — going  to  take  'em  away,"  stammered  Mr. 
Sims. 

"Well,  they'll  be  easier  to  carry  now,"  said  Mr. 
Drill,  simply. 

Mr.  Sims  glanced  at  him  sharply,  and  then,  to  the 
extreme  astonishment  of  Mr.  Gunnill,  snatched  up 
the  relics  and,  wrapping  them  up  in  the  paper,  dashed 
out  of  the  house.  Mr.  Gunnill  turned  a  look  of  blank 
inquiry  upon  Mr.  Drill. 

"It  wasn't  Cooper's  number  on  the  helmet,"  said 
that  gentleman. 

"Eh?"  shouted  Mr.  Gunnill. 

"How  do  you  know?"  inquired  Selina. 

"I  just  happened  to  notice,"  replied  Mr.  Drill. 

He  reached  down  as  though  to  take  up  the  carpet- 
bag which  he  had  placed  by  the  side  of  his  chair,  and 


The  Changing  Numbers 

then,  apparently  thinking  better  of  it,  leaned  back 
in  his  seat  and  eyed  Mr.  Gunnill. 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  said  the  latter,  "that 
he's  been  and  upset  the  wrong  man?" 

Mr.  Drill  shook  his  head.  "That's  the  puzzle," 
he  said,  softly. 

He  smiled  over  at  Miss  Gunnill,  but  that  young 
lady,  who  found  him  somewhat  mysterious,  looked 
away  and  frowned.  Her  father  sat  and  exhausted 
conjecture,  his  final  conclusion  being  that  Mr.  Sims 
had  attacked  the  first  policeman  that  had  come  in  his 
way  and  was  now  suffering  the  agonies  of  remorse. 

He  raised  his  head  sharply  at  the  sound  of  hurried 
footsteps  outside.  There  was  a  smart  rap  at  the 
street  door,  then  the  handle  was  turned,  and  the  next 
moment,  to  the  dismay  of  all  present,  the  red  and 
angry  face  of  one  of  Mr.  Cooper's  brother-constables 
was  thrust  into  the  room. 

Mr.  Gunnill  gazed  at  it  in  helpless  fascination. 
The  body  of  the  constable  garbed  in  plain  clothes  fol- 
lowed the  face  and,  standing  before  him  in  a  men- 
acing fashion,  held  out  a  broken  helmet  and  staff. 

"Have  you  seen  these  afore?"  he  inquired,  in  a 
terrible  voice. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Gunnill,  with  an  attempt  at  sur- 
prise. "What  are  they?" 

"I'll  tell  you  what  they  are,"  said  Police-consta- 
ble Jenkins,  ferociously;  "they're  my  helmet  and 

186 


The  Changing   Numbers 

truncheon.  You've  been  spoiling  His  Majesty's 
property,  and  you'll  be  locked  up." 

"Tours?"  said  the  astonished  Mr.  Gunnill. 

"I  lent  'em  to  young  Sims,  just  for  a  joke,"  said 
the  constable.  "I  felt  all  along  I  was  doing  a  silly 
thing." 

"It's  no  joke,"  said  Mr.  Gunnill,  severely.  "I'll 
tell  young  Herbert  what  I  think  of  him  trying  to  de- 
ceive me  like  that." 

"Never  mind  about  deceiving,"  interrupted  the 
constable.  "What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

"What  are  you?"  inquired  Mr.  Gunnill,  hardily. 
"It  seems  to  me  it's  between  you  and  him;  you'll  very 
likely  be  dismissed  from  the  force,  and  all  through 
trying  to  deceive.  I  wash  my  hands  of  it." 

"You'd  no  business  to  lend  it,"  said  Drill,  inter- 
rupting the  constable's  indignant  retort;  "especially 
for  Sims  to  pretend  that  he  had  stolen  it  from 
Cooper.  It's  a  roundabout  sort  of  thing,  but  you 
can't  tell  of  Mr.  Gunnill  without  getting  into  trouble 
yourself." 

"I  shall  have  to  put  up  with  that,"  said  the  con- 
stable, desperately;  "it's  got  to  be  explained.  It's 
my  day-helmet,  too,  and  the  night  one's  as  shabby 
as  can  be.  Twenty  years  in  the  force  and  never  a 
mark  against  my  name  till  now." 

"If  you'd  only  keep  quiet  a  bit  instead  of  talking 
so  much,"  said  Mr.  Drill,  who  had  been  doing  some 

187 


The  Changing  Numbers 

hard  thinking,  "I  might  be  able  to  help  you, 
p'r'aps." 

"How?"  inquired  the  constable. 

"Help  him  if  you  can,  Ted,"  said  Mr.  Gunnill, 
eagerly ;  "we  ought  all  to  help  others  when  we  get  a 
chance." 

Mr.  Drill  sat  bolt  upright  and  looked  very  wise. 

He  took  the  smashed  helmet  from  the  table  and 
examined  it  carefully.  It  was  broken  in  at  least  half- 
a-dozen  places,  and  he  laboured  in  vain  to  push  it  into 
shape.  He  might  as  well  have  tried  to  make  a  silk 
hat  out  of  a  concertina.  The  only  thing  that  had 
escaped  injury  was  the  metal  plate  with  the  number. 

"Why  don't  you  mend  it?"  he  inquired,  at  last. 

"Mend  it?"  shouted  the  incensed  Mr.  Jenkins. 
"Why  don't  you?" 

"I  think  I  could,"  said  Mr.  Drill,  slowly;  "give 
me  half  an  hour  in  the  kitchen  and  I'll  try." 

"Have  as  long  as  you  like,"  said  Mr.  Gunnill. 

"And  I  shall  want  some  glue,  and  Miss  Gunnill, 
and  some  tin-tacks,"  said  Drill. 

"What  do  you  want  me  for?"  inquired  Selina. 

"To  hold  the  things  for  me,"  replied  Mr.  Drill. 

Miss  Gunnill  tossed  her  head,  but  after  a  little 
demur  consented;  and  Drill,  ignoring  the  impatience 
of  the  constable,  picked  up  his  bag  and  led  the  way 
into  the  kitchen.  Messrs.  Gunnill  and  Jenkins,  left 
behind  in  the  living-room,  sought  for  some  neutral 

188 


The  Changing   Numbers 

topic  of  discourse,  but  in  vain;  conversation  would 
revolve  round  hard  labour  and  lost  pensions. 

From  the   kitchen   came   sounds  of  hammering, 


"  From  the  kitchen  came  sounds  of  hammering.** 
189 


The  Changing   Numbers 

then  a  loud  "Ooh!"  from  Miss  Gunnill,  followed 
by  a  burst  of  laughter  and  a  clapping  of  hands.  Mr. 
Jenkins  shifted  in  his  seat  and  exchanged  glances 
with  Mr.  Gunnill. 

"He's  a  clever  fellow,"  said  that  gentleman,  hope- 
fully. "You  should  hear  him  imitate  a  canary;  life- 
like it  is." 

Mr.  Jenkins  was  about  to  make  a  hasty  and  ob- 
vious rejoinder,  when  the  kitchen  door  opened  and 
Selina  emerged,  followed  by  Drill.  The  snarl  which 
the  constable  had  prepared  died  away  in  a  murmur 
of  astonishment  as  he  took  the  helmet.  It  looked  as 
good  as  ever. 

He  turned  it  over  and  over  in  amaze,  and  looked 
in  vain  for  any  signs  of  the  disastrous  cracks.  It  was 
stiff  and  upright.  He  looked  at  the  number:  it  was 
his  own.  His  eyes  round  with  astonishment  he  tried 
it  on,  and  then  his  face  relaxed. 

"It  don't  fit  as  well  as  it  did,"  he  said. 

"Well,  upon  my  word,  some  people  are  never  sat- 
isfied," said  the  indignant  Drill.  "There  isn't 
another  man  in  England  could  have  done  it  better." 

"I'm  not  grumbling,"  said  the  constable,  hastily; 
"it's  a  wonderful  piece  o'  work.  Wonderful!  I 
can't  even  see  where  it  was  broke.  How  on  earth 
did  you  do  it?" 

Drill  shook  his  head.  "It's  a  secret  process,"  he 
said,  slowly.  "I  might  want  to  go  into  the  hat 

190 


The  Changing   Numbers 

trade  some  day,  and  I'm  not  going  to  give  things 
away." 

"Quite  right,"  said  Mr.  Jenkins.  "Still — well,  it's 
a  marvel,  that's  what  it  is;  a  fair  marvel.  If  you  take 
my  advice  you'll  go  in  the  hat  trade  to-morrow,  my 
lad." 

"I'm  not  surprised,"  said  Mr.  Gunnill,  whose  face 
as  he  spoke  was  a  map  of  astonishment.  "Not  a 
bit.  I've  seen  him  do  more  surprising  things  than 
that.  Have  a  go  at  the  staff  now,  Teddy." 
.  "I'll  see  about  it,"  said  Mr.  Drill,  modestly.  "I 
can't  do  impossibilities.  You  leave  it  here,  Mr. 
Jenkins,  and  we'll  talk  about  it  later  on." 

Mr.  Jenkins,  still  marvelling  over  his  helmet,  as- 
sented, and,  after  another  reference  to  the  possibili- 
ties in  the  hat  trade  to  a  man  with  a  born  gift  for 
repairs,  wrapped  his  property  in  a  piece  of  newspaper 
and  departed,  whistling. 

"Ted,"  said  Mr.  Gunnill,  impressively,  as  he  sank 
into  his  chair  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  "How  you  done 
it  I  don't  know.  It's  a  surprise  even  to  me." 

"He  is  very  clever,"  said  Selina,  with  a  kind  smile. 

Mr.  Drill  turned  pale,  and  then,  somewhat  em- 
boldened by  praise  from  such  a  quarter,  dropped  into 
a  chair  by  her  side  and  began  to  talk  in  low  tones. 
The  grateful  Mr.  Gunnill,  more  relieved  than  he 
cared  to  confess,  thoughtfully  closed  his  eyes. 

"I  didn't  think  all  along  that  you'd  let  Herbert 
outdo  you,"  said  Selina. 

IQI 


The  Changing   Numbers 

"I  want  to  outdo  him"  said  Mr.  Drill,  in  a  voice 
of  much  meaning. 

Miss  Gunnill  cast  down  her  eyes  and  Mr.  Drill 
had  just  plucked  up  sufficient  courage  to  take  her 
hand  when  footsteps  stopped  at  the  house,  the  handle 
of  the  door  was  turned,  and,  for  the  second  time 
that  evening,  the  inflamed  visage  of  Mr.  Jenkins  con- 
fronted the  company. 

"Don't  tell  me  it's  a  failure,"  said  Mr.  Gunnill, 
starting  from  his  chair.  "You  must  have  been  hand- 
ling it  roughly.  It  was  as  good  as  new  when  you 
took  it  away." 

Mr.  Jenkins  waved  him  away  and  fixed  his  eyes 
upon  Drill. 

"You  think  you're  mighty  clever,  I  dare  say,"  he 
said,  grimly;  "but  I  can  put  two  and  two  together. 
I've  just  heard  of  it." 

"Heard  of  two  and  two?"  said  Drill,  looking 
puzzled. 

"I  don't  want  any  of  your  nonsense,"  said  Mr. 
Jenkins.  "I'm  not  on  duty  now,  but  I  warn  you 
not  to  say  anything  that  may  be  used  against 
you." 

"I  never  do,"  said  Mr.  Drill,  piously. 

"Somebody  threw  a  handful  o'  flour  in  poor 
Cooper's  face  a  couple  of  hours  ago,"  said  Mr.  Jen- 
kins, watching  him  closely,  "and  while  he  was  getting 
it  out  of  his  eyes  they  upset  him  and  made  off  with 

192 


The  Changing  Numbers 

his  helmet  and  truncheon.  I  just  met  Brown  and  he 
says  Cooper's  been  going  on  like  a  madman." 

"By  Jove !  it's  a  good  job  I  mended  your  helmet 
for  you,"  said  Mr.  Drill,  "or  else  they  might  have 
suspected  you." 

Mr.  Jenkins  stared  at  him.  "I  know  who  did  do 
it,"  he  said,  significantly. 

"Herbert  Sims?"  guessed  Mr.  Drill,  in  a  stage 
whisper. 

"You'll  be  one  o'  the  first  to  know,"  said  Mr.  Jen- 
kins, darkly;  "he'll  be  arrested  to-morrow.  Fancy 
the  impudence  of  it!  It's  shocking." 

Mr.  Drill  whistled.  "Well,  don't  let  that  little 
affair  o'  yours  with  Sims  be  known,"  he  said,  quietly. 
"Have  that  kept  quiet — if  you  can.'1'1 

Mr.  Jenkins  started  as  though  he  had  been  stung. 
In  the  joy  of  a  case  he  had  overlooked  one  or  two 
things.  He  turned  and  regarded  the  young  man  wist- 
fully. 

"Don't  call  on  me  as  a  witness,  that's  all,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Drill.  "I  never  was  a  mischief-maker, 
and  I  shouldn't  like  to  have  to  tell  how  you  lent  your 
helmet  to  Sims  so  that  he  could  pretend  he  had 
knocked  Cooper  down  and  taken  it  from  him." 

"Wouldn't  look  at  all  well,"  said  Mr.  Gunnill, 
nodding  his  head  sagely. 

Mr.  Jenkins  breathed  hard  and  looked  from  one 
to  the  other.  It  was  plain  that  it  was  no  good  re- 

193 


The  Changing  Numbers 

minding  them  that  he  had  not  had  a  case  for  five 
years. 

"When  I  say  that  I  know  who  did  it,"  he  said, 
slowly,  "I  mean  that  I  have  my  suspicions." 


Don't  call  on  me  as  a  witness,  that's  all,*  continued  Mr.  Drill." 


"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Drill,  "that's  a  very  different 
thing." 

"Nothing  like  the  same,"  said  Mr.  Gunnill,  pour- 
ing the  constable  a  glass  of  ale. 

Mr.  Jenkins  drank  it  and  smacked  his  lips  feebly. 
194 


The  Changing  Numbers 

"Sims  needn't  know  anything  about  that  helmet 
being  repaired,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Certainly  not,"  said  everybody. 

Mr.  Jenkins  sighed  and  turned  to  Drill. 

"It's  no  good  spoiling  the  ship  for  a  ha'porth  o* 
tar,"  he  said,  with  a  faint  suspicion  of  a  wink. 

"No,"  said  Drill,  looking  puzzled. 

"Anything  that's  worth  doing  at  all  is  worth  do- 
ing well,"  continued  the  constable,  "and  while  I'm 
drinking  another  glass  with  Mr.  Gunnill  here,  sup- 
pose you  go  into  the  kitchen  with  that  useful  bag  o* 
yours  and  finish  repairing  my  truncheon?" 


195 


THE  PERSECUTION  OF 
BOB  PRETTY 


THE    PERSECUTION    OF 
BOB    PRETTY 

THE  old  man  sat  on  his  accustomed  bench  out- 
side the  Cauliflower.  A  generous  measure 
of  beer  stood  in  a  blue  and  white  jug  by 
his  elbow,  and  little  wisps  of  smoke  curled  slowly 
upward  from  the  bowl  of  his  churchwarden  pipe. 
The  knapsacks  of  two  young  men  lay  where  they 
were  flung  on  the  table,  and  the  owners,  taking  a 
noon-tide  rest,  turned  a  polite,  if  bored,  ear  to  the 
reminiscences  of  grateful  old  age. 

Poaching,  said  the  old  man,  who  had  tried  topics 
ranging  from  early  turnips  to  horseshoeing — poach- 
ing ain't  wot  it  used  to  be  in  these  'ere  parts.  Noth- 
ing is  like  it  used  to  be,  poaching  nor  anything  else; 
but  that  there  man  you  might  ha'  noticed  as  went  out 
about  ten  minutes  ago  and  called  me  "Old  Truthful- 
ness" as  'e  passed  is  the  worst  one  I  know.  Bob 
Pretty  'is  name  is,  and  of  all  the  sly,  artful,  deceiving 
men  that  ever  lived  in  Claybury  'e  is  the  worst — 
never  did  a  honest  day's  work  in  Ms  life  and  never 
wanted  the  price  of  a  glass  of  ale. 

Bob  Pretty's  worst  time  was  just  after  old  Squire 
199 


The  Persecution  of  Bob  Pretty 

Brown  died.  The  old  squire  couldn't  afford  to  pre- 
serve much,  but  by-and-by  a  gentleman  with  plenty  o' 
money,  from  London,  named  Rockett,  took  'is  place 
and  things  began  to  look  up.  Pheasants  was  'is 


"  Poaching,"  said  the  old  man,  '« ain't  wot  it  used  to  be  in  these  'ere  parts." 

favourites,  and  'e  spent  no  end  o'  money  rearing  of 
'em,  but  anything  that  could  be  shot  at  suited  'im, 
too. 

He  started  by  sneering  at  the  little  game  that 
Squire  Brown  'ad  left,  but  all  'e  could  do  didn't  seem 

200 


The  Persecution  of  Bob  Pretty 

to  make  much  difference;  things  disappeared  in  a 
most  eggstrordinary  way,  and  the  keepers  went  pretty 
near  crazy,  while  the  things  the  squire  said  about 
Claybury  and  Claybury  men  was  disgraceful. 

Everybody  knew  as  it  was  Bob  Pretty  and  one  or 
two  of  'is  mates  from  other  places,  but  they  couldn't 
prove  it.  They  couldn't  catch  'im  nohow,  and  at  last 
the  squire  'ad  two  keepers  set  off  to  watch  'im  by  night 
and  by  day. 

Bob  Pretty  wouldn't  believe  it;  he  said  'e  couldn't. 
And  even  when  it  was  pointed  out  to  'im  that  Keeper 
Lewis  was  follering  of  'im  he  said  that  it  just  'ap- 
pened  he  was  going  the  same  way,  that  was  all.  And 
sometimes  'e'd  get  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night  and 
go  for  a  fifteen-mile  walk  'cos  'e'd  got  the  toothache, 
and  Mr.  Lewis,  who  'adn't  got  it,  had  to  tag  along 
arter  'im  till  he  was  fit  to  drop.  O'  course,  it  was  one 
keeper  the  less  to  look  arter  the  game,  and  by-and-by 
the  squire  see  that  and  took  'im  off. 

All  the  same  they  kept  a  pretty  close  watch  on  Bob, 
and  at  last  one  arternoon  they  sprang  out  on  'im  as 
he  was  walking  past  Gray's  farm,  and  asked  him  wot 
it  was  he  'ad  in  his  pockets. 

"That's  my  bisness,  Mr.  Lewis,"  ses  Bob  Pretty. 

Mr.  Smith,  the  other  keeper,  passed  'is  hands  over 
Bob's  coat  and  felt  something  soft  and  bulgy. 

"You  take  your  'ands  off  of  me,"  ses  Bob;  "you 
don't  know  'ow  partikler  I  am." 

201 


The  Persecution  of  Bob  Pretty 

He  jerked  'imself  away,  but  they  caught  'old  of 
'im  agin,  and  Mr.  Lewis  put  'is  hand  in  his  inside 
pocket  and  pulled  out  two  brace  o'  partridges. 

"You'll  come  along  of  us,"  he  ses,  catching  'im  by 
the  arm. 

"We've  been  looking  for  you  a  long  time,"  ses 
Keeper  Smith,  "and  it's  a  pleasure  for  us  to  'ave  your 
company." 

Bob  Pretty  said  'e  wouldn't  go,  but  they  forced 
'im  along  and  took  'im  all  the  way  to  Cudford,  four 
miles  off,  so  that  Policeman  White  could  lock  'im  up 
for  the  night.  Mr.  White  was  a'most  as  pleased  as 
the  keepers,  and  'e  warned  Bob  solemn  not  to  speak 
becos  all  'e  said  would  be  used  agin  'im. 

"Never  mind  about  that,"  ses  Bob  Pretty.  "I've 
got  a  clear  conscience,  and  talking  can't  'urt  me.  I'm 
very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  White;  if  these  two  clever, 
experienced  keepers  hadn't  brought  me  I  should  'ave 
looked  you  up  myself.  They've  been  and  stole  my 
partridges." 

Them  as  was  standing  round  laughed,  and  even 
Policeman  White  couldn't  'elp  giving  a  little  smile. 

"There's  nothing  to  laugh  at,"  ses  Bob,  'olding 
his  'ead  up.  "It's  a  fine  thing  when  a  working  man 
— a  'ardworking  man — can't  take  home  a  little  game 
for  'is  family  without  being  stopped  and  robbed." 

"I  s'pose  they  flew  into  your  pocket?"  ses  Police- 
man White. 

202 


The  Persecution  of  Bob  Pretty 

uNo,  they  didn't,"  ses  Bob.  "I'm  not  going  to 
tell  any  lies  about  it ;  I  put  'em  there.  The  partridges 
in  my  inside  coat-pocket  and  the  bill  in  my  waist- 
coat-pocket." 

"The  bill?"  ses  Keeper  Lewis,  staring  at  'im. 

"Yes,  the  bill,"  ses  Bob  Pretty,  staring  back  at  'im; 
"the  bill  from  Mr.  Keen,  the  poulterer,  at  Wick- 
ham." 

He  fetched  it  out  of  'is  pocket  and  showed  it  to 
Mr.  White,  and  the  keepers  was  like  madmen  a'most 
'cos  it  was  plain  to  see  that  Bob  Pretty  'ad  been  and 
bought  them  partridges  just  for  to  play  a  game  on 
'em. 

"I  was  curious  to  know  wot  they  tasted  like,"  he 
ses  to  the  policeman.  "Worst  of  it  is,  I  don't  s'pose 
my  pore  wife'll  know  'ow  to  cook  'em." 

"You  get  off  'ome,"  ses  Policeman  White,  staring 
at  'im. 

"But  ain't  I  goin'  to  be  locked  up?"  ses  Bob. 
"'Ave  I  been  brought  all  this  way  just  to  'ave  a  lit- 
tle chat  with  a  policeman  I  don't  like." 

"You  go  'ome,"  ses  Policeman  White,  handing  the 
partridges  back  to  Mm. 

"All  right,"  ses  Bob,  "and  I  may  'ave  to  call  you 
to  witness  that  these  'ere  two  men  laid  hold  o'  me  and 
tried  to  steal  my  partridges.  I  shall  go  up  and  see 
my  loryer  about  it.'' 

He  walked  off  'ome  with  his  'ead  up  as  high  as  'c 
203 


The  Persecution  of  Bob  Pretty- 
could  hold  it,  and  the  airs  'e  used  to  give  'imself  arter 
this  was  terrible  for  to  behold.  He  got  'is  eldest  boy 
to  write  a  long  letter  to  the  squire  about  it,  saying 
that  Vd  overlook  it  this  time,  but  'e  couldn't  promise 
for  the  future.  Wot  with  Bob  Pretty  on  one  side 
and  Squire  Rockett  on  the  other,  them  two  keepers' 
lives  was  'ardly  worth  living. 

Then  the  squire  got  a  head-keeper  named  Cutts, 
a  man  as  was  said  to  know  more  about  the  ways  of 
poachers  than  they  did  themselves.  He  was  said  to 
'ave  cleared  out  all  the  poachers  for  miles  round  the 
place  'e  came  from,  and  pheasants  could  walk  into 
people's  cottages  and  not  be  touched. 

He  was  a  sharp-looking  man,  tall  and  thin,  with 
screwed-up  eyes  and  a  little  red  beard.  The  second 
day  'e  came  'e  was  up  here  at  this  'ere  Cauliflower, 
having  a  pint  o'  beer  and  looking  round  at  the  chaps 
as  he  talked  to  the  landlord.  The  odd  thing  was  that 
men  who'd  never  taken  a  hare  or  a  pheasant  in  their 
lives  could  'ardly  meet  'is  eye,  while  Bob  Pretty  stared 
at  'im  as  if  'e  was  a  wax-works. 

"I  'ear  you  'ad  a  little  poaching  in  these  parts  afore 
I  came,"  ses  Mr.  Cutts  to  the  landlord. 

"I  think  I  'ave  'card  something  o'  the  kind,"  ses 
the  landlord,  staring  over  his  'ead  with  a  far-away 
look  in  'is  eyes. 

"You  won't  hear  of  much  more,"  ses  the  keeper. 
"I've  invented  a  new  way  of  catching  the  dirty  ras- 

204 


The  Persecution  of  Bob  Pretty 

cals;  afore  I  came  'ere  I  caught  all  the  poachers  on 
three  estates.  I  clear  'em  out  just  like  a  ferret  clears 
out  rats." 

"Sort  o'  man-trap?"  ses  the  landlord. 

"Ah,  that's  tellings,"  ses  Mr.  Cutts. 


"  *I  shall  'ave  'em  afore  long,"  ses  Mr.  Cutts." 

"Well,  I  'ope  you'll  catch  'em  here,"  ses  Bob 
Pretty;  "there's  far  too  many  of  'em  about  for  my 
liking.  Far  too  many." 

"I  shall  'ave  'em  afore  long."  ses  Mr.  Cutts,  nod- 
ding his  'ead. 

"Your  good  'ealth,"  ses  Bob  Pretty,  holding  up  'is 
205 


The  Persecution  of  Bob  Pretty 

mug.  "We've  been  wanting  a  man  like  you  for  a 
long  time." 

"I  don't  want  any  of  your  impidence,  my  man," 
ses  the  keeper.  "I've  'card  about  you,  and  nothing 
good  either.  You  be  careful." 

"I  am  careful,"  ses  Bob,  winking  at  the  others. 
"I  'ope  you'll  catch  all  them  low  poaching  chaps; 
they  give  the  place  a  bad  name,  and  I'm  a'most  afraid 
to  go  out  arter  dark  for  fear  of  meeting  'em." 

Peter  Gubbins  and  Sam  Jones  began  to  laugh,  but 
Bob  Pretty  got  angry  with  'em  and  said  he  didn't  see 
there  was  anything  to  laugh  at.  He  said  that  poach- 
ing was  a  disgrace  to  their  native  place,  and  instead 
o'  laughing  they  ought  to  be  thankful  to  Mr.  Cutts 
for  coming  to  do  away  with  it  all. 

"Any  help  I  can  give  you  shall  be  given  cheerful," 
he  ses  to  the  keeper. 

"When  I  want  your  help  I'll  ask  you  for  it,"  ses 
Mr.  Cutts. 

"Thankee,"  ses  Bob  Pretty.  "I  on'y  'ope  I  sha'n't 
get  my  face  knocked  about  like  yours  'as  been,  that's 
all;  'cos  my  wife's  so  partikler." 

"Wot  d'ye  mean?"  ses  Mr.  Cutts,  turning  on  him. 
4'My  face  ain't  been  knocked  about." 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardin,"  ses  Bob;  "I  didn't  know 
it  was  natural." 

Mr.  Cutts  went  black  in  the  face  a'most  and  stared 
at  Bob  Pretty  as  if  'e  was  going  to  eat  'im,  and  Bob 

206 


The  Persecution  of  Bob  Pretty 

stared  back,  looking  fust  at  the  keeper's  nose  and 
then  at  'is  eyes  and  mouth,  and  then  at  'is  nose 
agin. 

"You'll  know  me  agin,  I  s'pose?"  ses  Mr.  Cutts, 
at  last. 

"Yes,"  ses  Bob,  smiling;  "I  should  know  you  a 
mile  off — on  the  darkest  night." 

"We  shall  see,"  ses  Mr.  Cutts,  taking  up  'is  beer 
and  turning  'is  back  on  him.  "Those  of  us  as  live 
the  longest'll  see  the  most." 

"I'm  glad  I've  lived  long  enough  to  see  'im,"  ses 
Bob  to  Bill  Chambers.  "I  feel  more  satisfied  with 
myself  now." 

Bill  Chambers  coughed,  and  Mr.  Cutts,  arter  fin- 
ishing 'is  beer,  took  another  look  at  Bob  Pretty,  and 
went  off  boiling  a'most. 

The  trouble  he  took  to  catch  Bob  Pretty  arter  that 
you  wouldn't  believe,  and  all  the  time  the  game 
seemed  to  be  simply  melting  away,  and  Squire  Rock- 
ett  was  finding  fault  with  'im  all  day  long.  He  was 
worn  to  a  shadder  a'most  with  watching,  and  Bob 
Pretty  seemed  to  be  more  prosperous  than  ever. 

Sometimes  Mr.  Cutts  watched  in  the  plantations, 
and  sometimes  'e  hid  'imself  near  Bob's  house,  and 
at  last  one  night,  when  'e  was  crouching  behind  the 
fence  of  Frederick  Scott's  front  garden,  'e  saw  Bob 
Pretty  come  out  of  'is  house  and,  arter  a  careful  look 
round,  walk  up  the  road.  He  held  'is  breath  as  Bob 

207 


The  Persecution  of  Bob  Pretty 

passed  'im,  and  was  just  getting  up  to  foller  'im  when 
Bob  stopped  and  walked  slowly  back  agin,  sniffing. 

"Wot  a  delicious  smell  o'  roses !"  he  ses,  out  loud. 

He  stood  in  the  middle  o'  the  road  nearly  opposite 
where  the  keeper  was  hiding,  and  sniffed  so  that  you 
could  ha'  'card  him  the  other  end  o'  the  village. 

"It  can't  be  roses,"  he  ses,  in  a  puzzled  voice,  "be- 
cos  there  ain't  no  roses  hereabouts,  and,  besides,  it's 
late  for  'em.  It  must  be  Mr.  Cutts,  the  clever  new 
keeper." 

He  put  his  'ead  over  the  fence  and  bid  'im  good 
evening,  and  said  wot  a  fine  night  for  a  stroll  it  was, 
and  asked  'im  whether  'e  was  waiting  for  Frederick 
Scott's  aunt.  Mr.  Cutts  didn't  answer  'im  a  word; 
'e  was  pretty  near  bursting  with  passion.  He  got  up 
and  shook  'is  fist  in  Bob  Pretty's  face,  and  then  'e 
went  off  stamping  down  the  road  as  if  'e  was  going 
mad. 

And  for  a  time  Bob  Pretty  seemed  to  'ave  all  the 
luck  on  'is  side.  Keeper  Lewis  got  rheumatic  fever, 
which  'e  put  down  to  sitting  about  night  arter  night 
in  damp  places  watching  for  Bob,  and,  while  'e  was 
in  the  thick  of  it,  with  the  doctor  going  every  day, 
Mr.  Cutts  fell  in  getting  over  a  fence  and  broke  'is 
leg.  Then  all  the  work  fell  on  Keeper  Smith,  and 
to  'ear  Mm  talk  you'd  think  that  rheumatic  fever  and 
broken  legs  was  better  than  anything  else  in  the 
world.  He  asked  the  squire  for  'elp,  but  the  squire 

208 


The  Persecution  of  Bob  Pretty 

wouldn't  give  it  to  'im,  and  he  kept  telling  'im  wot 
a  feather  in  'is  cap  it  would  be  if  'e  did  wot  the  other 
two  couldn't  do,  and  caught  Bob  Pretty.  It  was  all 
very  well,  but,  as  Smith  said,  wot  'e  wanted  was 
feathers  in  'is  piller,  instead  of  'aving  to  snatch  a  bit 
o'  sleep  in  'is  chair  or  sitting  down  with  his  'ead  agin 
a  tree.  When  I  tell  you  that  'e  fell  asleep  in  this 
public-'ouse  one  night  while  the  landlord  was  draw- 
ing a  pint  o'  beer  he  'ad  ordered,  you'll  know  wot  'e 
suffered. 

O'  course,  all  this  suited  Bob  Pretty  as  well  as 
could  be,  and  'e  was  that  good-tempered  Vd  got  a 
nice  word  for  everybody,  and  when  Bill  Chambers 
told  'im  'e  was  foolhardy  'e  only  laughed  and  said  'e 
knew  wot  'e  was  about. 

But  the  very  next  night  'e  had  reason  to  remember 
Bill  Chambers's  words.  He  was  walking  along 
Farmer  Hall's  field — the  one  next  to  the  squire's 
plantation — and,  so  far  from  being  nervous,  'e  was 
actually  a-whistling.  He'd  got  a  sack  over  'is  shoul- 
der, loaded  as  full  as  it  could  be,  and  'e  'ad  just 
stopped  to  light  'is  pipe  when  three  men  burst  out 
o'  the  plantation  and  ran  toward  'im  as  'ard  as  they 
could  run. 

Bob  Pretty  just  gave  one  look  and  then  'e  dropped 
'is  pipe  and  set  off  like  a  hare.  It  was  no  good  drop- 
ping the  sack,  because  Smith,  the  keeper,  'ad  recog- 
nised 'im  and  called  'im  by  name,  so  'e  just  put  'is 

209 


The  Persecution  of  Bob  Pretty 

teeth  together  and  did  the  best  he  could,  and  there's 
no  doubt  that  if  it  'adn't  ha'  been  for  the  sack  'e 
could  'ave  got  clear  away. 

As  it  was,  'e  ran  for  pretty  near  a  mile,  and  they 


*  Three  men  burst  out  o'  the  plantation.* 
2IO 


The  Persecution  of  Bob  Pretty 

could  'ear  'im  breathing  like  a  pair  o'  bellows;  but 
at  last  'e  saw  that  the  game  was  up.  He  just  man- 
aged to  struggle  as  far  as  Farmer  Pinnock's  pond, 
and  then,  waving  the  sack  round  his  'ead,  'e  flung  it 
into  the  middle  of  it,  and  fell  down  gasping  for 
breath. 

"Got — you — this  time — Bob  Pretty,"  ses  one  o' 
the  men,  as  they  came  up. 

"Wot — Mr.  Cutts?"  ses  Bob,  with  a  start. 

"That's  me,  my  man,"  ses  the  keeper. 

"Why — I  thought — you  was .  Is  that  Mr. 

Lewis?  It  can't  be." 

"That's  me,"  ses  Keeper  Lewis.  "We  both  got 
well  sudden-like,  Bob  Pretty,  when  we  'card  you 
was  out.  You  ain't  so  sharp  as  you  thought  you 
was." 

Bob  Pretty  sat  still,  getting  'is  breath  back  and 
doing  a  bit  o'  thinking  at  the  same  time. 

"You  give  me  a  start,"  he  ses,  at  last.  "I  thought 
you  was  both  in  bed,  and,  knowing  'ow  hard  worked 
Mr.  Smith  'as  been,  I  just  came  round  to  'elp  'im  keep 
watch  like.  I  promised  to  'elp  you,  Mr.  Cutts,  if  you 
remember." 

"Wot  was  that  you  threw  in  the  pond  just  now?" 
ses  Mr.  Cutts. 

"A  sack,"  ses  Bob  Pretty ;  "  a  sack  I  found  in 
Farmer  Hall's  field.  It  felt  to  me  as  though  it 
might  'ave  birds  in  it,  so  I  picked  it  up,  and  I  was 

211 


The  Persecution  of  Bob  Pretty 

just  on  my  way  to  your  'ouse  with  it,  Mr.  Cutts, 
when  you  started  arter  me." 

"Ah!"  ses  the  keeper,  "and  wot  did  you  run  for?" 

Bob  Pretty  tried  to  laugh.  "Becos  I  thought  it 
was  the  poachers  arter  me,"  he  ses.  "It  seems  ridiki- 
lous,  don't  it?" 

"Yes,  it  does,"  ses  Lewis. 

"I  thought  you'd  know  me  a  mile  off,"  ses  Mr. 
Cutts.  "I  should  ha'  thought  the  smell  o'  roses  would 
ha'  told  you  I  was  near." 

Bob  Pretty  scratched  'is  'ead  and  looked  at  'im  out 
of  the  corner  of  'is  eye,  but  he  'adn't  got  any  answer. 
Then  'e  sat  biting  his  finger-nails  and  thinking  while 
the  keepers  stood  argyfying  as  to  who  should  take  'is 
clothes  off  and  go  into  the  pond  arter  the  pheasants. 
It  was  a  very  cold  night  and  the  pond  was  pretty 
deep  in  places,  and  none  of  'em  seemed  anxious. 

"Make  'im  go  in  for  it,"  ses  Lewis,  looking  at 
Bob  ;"'e  chucked  it  in." 

"On'y  becos  I  thought  you  was  poachers,"  ses  Bob. 
"I'm  sorry  to  'ave  caused  so  much  trouble." 

"Well,  you  go  in  and  get  it  out,"  ses  Lewis,  who 
pretty  well  guessed  who'd  'ave  to  do  it  if  Bob  didn't. 
"It'll  look  better  for  you,  too." 

"I've  got  my  defence  all  right,"  ses  Bob  Pretty. 
"I  ain't  set  a  foot  on  the  squire's  preserves,  and  I 
found  this  sack  a  'undred  yards  away  from  it." 

"Don't  waste  more  time,"  ses  Mr.  Cutts  to  Lewi's. 
212 


The  Persecution  of  Bob  Pretty 

"Off  with  your  clothes  and  in  with  you.    Anybody'd 
think  you  was  afraid  of  a  little  cold  water." 

"Whereabouts  did  'e  pitch  it  in?"  ses  Lewis. 

Bob  Pretty  pointed  with  'is  finger  exactly  where  'c 


"  Bob  Pretty  pointed  with  'is  finger." 

thought  it  was,  but  they  wouldn't  listen  to  'im,  and 
then  Lewis,  arter  twice  saying  wot  a  bad  cold  he'd 
got,  took  'is  coat  off  very  slow  and  careful. 

"I  wouldn't  mind  going  in  to  oblige  you,"  ses  Bob 
213 


The  Persecution  of  Bob  Pretty 

Pretty,  "but  the  pond  is  so  full  o'  them  cold,  slimy 
efts;  I  don't  fancy  them  crawling  up  agin  me,  and, 
besides  that,  there's  such  a  lot  o'  deep  holes  in  it. 
And  wotever  you  do  don't  put  your  'ead  under;  you 
know  'ow  foul  that  water  is." 

Keeper  Lewis  pretended  not  to  listen  to  'im.  He 
took  off  'is  clothes  very  slowly  and  then  'e  put  one 
foot  in  and  stood  shivering,  although  Smith,  who  felt 
the  water  with  his  'and,  said  it  was  quite  warm. 
Then  Lewis  put  the  other  foot  in  and  began  to  walk 
about  careful,  'arf-way  up  to  'is  knees. 

"I  can't  find  it,"  he  ses,  with  'is  teeth  chattering. 

"You  'aven't  looked,"  ses  Mr.  Cutts;  "walk  about 
more ;  you  can't  expect  to  find  it  all  at  once.  Try  the 
middle." 

Lewis  tried  the  middle,  and  'e  stood  there  up  to  'is 
neck,  feeling  about  with  his  foot  and  saying  things 
out  loud  about  Bob  Pretty,  and  other  things  under 
'is  breath  about  Mr.  Cutts. 

"Well,  I'm  going  off  'ome,"  ses  Bob  Pretty,  get- 
ting up.  "I'm  too  tender-'arted  to  stop  and  see  a 
man  drownded." 

"You  stay  'ere,"  ses  Mr.  Cutts,  catching  'old  of 
him. 

"Wot  for?"  ses  Bob;  "you've  got  no  right  to  keep 


me  'ere." 


"Catch  'old  of  'im,  Joe,"  ses  Mr.  Cutts,  quick- 
like. 

214 


The  Persecution  of  Bob  Pretty 

Smith  caught  'old  of  his  other  arm,  and  Lewis  left 
off  trying  to  find  the  sack  to  watch  the  struggle.  Bob 
Pretty  fought  'ard,  and  once  or  twice  'e  nearly  tum- 
bled Mr.  Cutts  into  the  pond,  but  at  last  'e  gave  in 
and  lay  down  panting  and  talking  about  'is  loryer. 
Smith  'eld  him  down  on  the  ground  while  Mr.  Cutts 
kept  pointing  out  places  with  'is  finger  for  Lewis  to 
walk  to.  The  last  place  'e  pointed  to  wanted  a  much 
taller  man,  but  it  wasn't  found  out  till  too  late,  and 
the  fuss  Keeper  Lewis  made  when  'e  could  speak  agin 
was  terrible. 

"You'd  better  come  out,"  ses  Mr.  Cutts;  "you  ain't 
doing  no  good.  We  know  where  they  are  and  we'll 
watch  the  pond  till  daylight — that  is,  unless  Smith 
'ud  like  to  'ave  a  try." 

"It's  pretty  near  daylight  now,  I  think,"  ses 
Smith. 

Lewis  came  out  and  ran  up  and  down  to  dry  'im- 
self,  and  finished  off  on  'is  pocket-'andkerchief,  and 
then  with  'is  teeth  chattering  'e  began  to  dress  'imself. 
He  got  'is  shirt  on,  and  then  'e  stood  turning  over 
'is  clothes  as  if  'e  was  looking  for  something. 

"Never  mind  about  your  stud  now,"  ses  Mr.  Cutts; 
"hurry  up  and  dress." 

"Stud?"  ses  Lewis,  very  snappish.  "I'm  looking 
for  my  trowsis." 

"Your  trowsis?"  ses  Smith,  'elping  'im  look. 

"I  put  all  my  clothes  together,"  ses  Lewis,  a'most 

215 


The  Persecution  of  Bob  Pretty 

shouting.     "Where  are  they?    I'm  'arf  perished  with 
cold.    Where  are  they  ?" 

"He  'ad  'em  on  this  evening,"  ses  Bob  Pretty, 
'"cos  I  remember  noticing  'em." 

"They  must  be  somewhere  about,"  ses  Mr.  Cutts; 
"why  don't  you  use  your  eyes?" 

He  walked  up  and  down,  peering  about,  and  as 
for  Lewis  he  was  'opping  round  'arf  crazy. 

"I  wonder,"  ses  Bob  Pretty,  in  a  thoughtful  voice, 
to  Smith — "I  wonder  whether  you  or  Mr.  Cutts 
kicked  'em  in  the  pond  while  you  was  struggling  with 
me.  Come  to  think  of  it,  I  seem  to  remember  'earing 
a  splash." 

"He's  done  it,  Mr.  Cutts,"  ses  Smith;  "nevermind, 
it'll  go  all  the  'arder  with  Mm." 

"But  I  do  mind,"  ses  Lewis,  shouting.  "I'll  be 
even  with  you  for  this,  Bob  Pretty.  I'll  make  you 
feel  it.  You  wait  till  I've  done  with  you.  You'll 
get  a  month  extra  for  this,  you  see  if  you  don't." 

"Don't  you  mind  about  me,"  ses  Bob;  "you  run 
off  'ome  and  cover  up  them  legs  of  yours.  I  found 
that  sack,  so  my  conscience  is  clear." 

Lewis  put  on  'is  coat  and  waistcoat  and  set  off, 
and  Mr.  Cutts  and  Smith,  arter  feeling  about  for  a 
dry  place,  set  theirselves  down  and  began  to  smoke. 

"Look  'ere,"  ses  Bob  Pretty,  "I'm  not  going  to  sit 
'ere  all  night  to  please  you;  I'm  going  off  'ome.  If 
you  want  me  you'll  know  where  to  find  me." 

216 


The  Persecution  of  Bob  Pretty 

"You  stay  where  you  are,"  ses  Mr.  Cutts.  "We 
ain't  going  to  let  you  out  of  our  sight." 

"Very  well,  then,  you  take  me  'ome,"  ses  Bob. 
"I'm  not  going  to  catch  my  death  o'  cold  sitting  'ere. 
I'm  not  used  to  being  out  of  a  night  like  you  are.  I 
was  brought  up  respectable." 

"I  dare  say,"  ses  Mr.  Cutts.  "Take  you  'ome,  and 
then  'ave  one  o'  your  mates  come  and  get  the  sack 
while  we're  away." 

Then  Bob  Pretty  lost  'is  temper,  and  the  things 
'e  said  about  Mr.  Cutts  wasn't  fit  for  Smith  to  'ear. 
He  threw  'imself  down  at  last  full  length  on  the 
ground  and  sulked  till  the  day  broke. 

Keeper  Lewis  was  there  a'most  as  soon  as  it  was 
light,  with  some  long  hay-rakes  he'd  borrowed,  and  I 
should  think  that  pretty  near  'arf  the  folks  in  Clay- 
bury  'ad  turned  up  to  see  the  fun.  Mrs.  Pretty  was 
crying  and  wringing  'er  'ands;  but  most  folks  seemed 
to  be  rather  pleased  that  Bob  'ad  been  caught  at  last. 

In  next  to  no  time  'arf-a-dozen  rakes  was  at  work, 
and  the  things  they  brought  out  o'  that  pond  you 
wouldn't  believe.  The  edge  of  it  was  all  littered  with 
rusty  tin  pails  and  saucepans  and  such-like,  and  by- 
and-by  Lewis  found  the  things  he'd  'ad  to  go  'ome 
without  a  few  hours  afore,  but  they  didn't  seem  to 
find  that  sack,  and  Bob  Pretty,  wot  was  talking  to 
'is  wife,  began  to  look  'opeful. 

But  just  then  the  squire  came  riding  up  with  two 
217 


The  Persecution  of  Bob  Pretty 

friends  as  was  staying  with  'im,  and  he  offered  a 
reward  of  five  shillings  to  the  man  wot  found  it. 
Three  or  four  of  'em  waded  in  up  to  their  middle 
then  and  raked  their  'ardest,  and  at  last  Henery 
Walker  give  a  cheer  and  brought  it  to  the  side,  all 
heavy  with  water. 

"That's  the  sack  I  found,  sir,"  ses  Bob,  starting 
up.  "It  wasn't  on  your  land  at  all,  but  on  the  field 
next  to  it.  I'm  an  honest,  'ardworking  man,  and  I've 
never  been  in  trouble  afore.  Ask  anybody  'ere  and 
they'll  tell  you  the  same." 

Squire  Rockett  took  no  notice  of  'im.  "Is  that  the 
sack?"  he  asks,  turning  to  Mr.  Cutts. 

"That's  the  one,  sir,"  ses  Mr.  Cutts.  "I'd  swear 
to  it  anywhere." 

"You'd  swear  a  man's  life  away,"  ses  Bob.  "'Ow 
can  you  swear  to  it  when  it  was  dark?" 

Mr.  Cutts  didn't  answer  'im.  He  went  down  on 
'is  knees  and  cut  the  string  that  tied  up  the  mouth  o' 
the  sack,  and  then  'e  started  back  as  if  'e'd  been  shot, 
and  'is  eyes  a'most  started  out  of  'is  'ead. 

"Wot's  the  matter?"  ses  the  squire. 

Mr.  Cutts  couldn't  speak;  he  could  only  stutter  and 
point  at  the  sack  with  'is  finger,  and  Henery  Walker, 
as  was  getting  curious,  lifted  up  the  other  end  of  it 
and  out  rolled  a  score  of  as  fine  cabbages  as  you  could 
wish  to  see. 

I  never  see  people  so  astonished  afore  in  all  my 
218 


The  Persecution  of  Bob  Pretty 

born  days,  and  as  for  Bob  Pretty,  'e  stood  staring  at 
them  cabbages  as  if  'e  couldn't  believe  'is  eyesight. 

"And  that's  wot  I've  been  kept  'ere  all  night  for," 
he  ses,  at  last,  shaking  his  'ead.    "That's  wot  comes 


"  '  You  ought  to  be  more  careful,'  ses  Bob." 

o'  trying  to  do  a  kindness  to  keepers,  and  'elping  of 
'em  in  their  difficult  work.  P'r'aps  that  ain't  the  sack 
arter  all,  Mr.  Cutts.  I  could  ha'  sworn  they  was 
pheasants  in  the  one  I  found,  but  I  may  be  mistook, 

219 


The  Persecution  of  Bob  Pretty 

never  'aving  'ad  one  in  my  'ands  afore.  Or  p'r'aps 
somebody  was  trying  to  'ave  a  game  with  you,  Mr. 
Cutts,  and  deceived  me  instead." 

The  keepers  on'y  stared  at  'im. 

"You  ought  to  be  more  careful,"  ses  Bob.  "Very 
likely  while  you  was  taking  all  that  trouble  over  me, 
and  Keeper  Lewis  was  catching  'is  death  o'  cold,  the 
poachers  was  up  at  the  plantation  taking  all  they 
wanted.  And,  besides,  it  ain't  right  for  Squire  Rock- 
ett  to  'ave  to  pay  Henery  Walker  five  shillings  for 
finding  a  lot  of  old  cabbages.  I  shouldn't  like  it  my- 
self." 

He  looked  out  of  the  corner  of  'is  eye  at  the  squire, 
as  was  pretending  not  to  notice  Henery  Walker  touch- 
ing 'is  cap  to  him,  and  then  'e  turns  to  'is  wife  and  he 
ses : — 

"Come  along,  old  gal,"  'e  ses.  "I  want  my  break- 
fast bad,  and  arter  that  I  shall  'ave  to  lose  a  honest 
day's  work  in  bed." 


220 


DIXON'S    RETURN 


DIXON'S    RETURN 

TALKING  about  eddication,  said  the  night- 
watchman,  thoughtfully,  the    finest   eddica- 
tion you  can  give  a  lad  is  to  send  'im  to  sea. 
School  is  all  right  up  to  a  certain  p'int,  but  arter  that 
comes  the  sea.     I've  been  there  myself  and  I  know 
wot  I'm  talking  about.     All  that  I  am  I  owe  to  'av- 
ing  been  to  sea. 

There's  a  saying  that  boys  will  be  boys.  That's 
all  right  till  they  go  to  sea,  and  then  they  'ave  to  be 
men,  and  good  men  too.  They  get  knocked  about  a 
bit,  o'  course,  but  that's  all  part  o'  the  eddication,  and 
when  they  get  bigger  they  pass  the  eddication  they've 
received  on  to  other  boys  smaller  than  wot  they  are. 
Arter  I'd  been  at  sea  a  year  I  spent  all  my  fust  time 
ashore  going  round  and  looking  for  boys  wot  'ad 
knocked  me  about  afore  I  sailed,  and  there  was  only 
one  out  o'  the  whole  lot  that  I  wished  I  'adn't  found. 
Most  people,  o'  course,  go  to  sea  as  boys  or  else 
not  at  all,  but  I  mind  one  chap  as  was  pretty  near 
thirty  years  old  when  'e  started.  It's  a  good  many 
years  ago  now,  and  he  was  landlord  of  a  public-'ouse 
as  used  to  stand  in  Wapping,  called  the  Blue  Lion. 

223 


Dixon's   Return 

His  mother,  wot  had  'ad  the  pub  afore  '5m,  'ad 
brought  'im  up  very  quiet  and  genteel,  and  when  she 
died  'e  went  and  married  a  fine,  handsome  young 
woman  who  'ad  got  her  eye  on  the  pub  without  think- 
ing much  about  'im.  I  got  to  know  about  it  through 
knowing  the  servant  that  lived  there.  A  nice,  quiet 
gal  she  was,  and  there  wasn't  much  went  on  that  she 
didn't  hear.  I've  known  'er  to  cry  for  hours  with 
the  ear-ache,  pore  gal. 

Not  caring  much  for  'er  'usband,  and  being  spoiled 
by  'im  into  the  bargain,  Mrs.  Dixon  soon  began  to 
lead  'im  a  terrible  life.  She  was  always  throwing  his 
meekness  and  mildness  up  into  'is  face,  and  arter  they 
'ad  been  married  two  or  three  years  he  was  no  more 
like  the  landlord  o'  that  public-'ouse  than  I'm  like  a 
lord.  Not  so  much.  She  used  to  get  into  such  ter- 
rible tempers  there  was  no  doing  anything  with  'er, 
and  for  the  sake  o'  peace  and  quietness  he  gave  way 
to  'er  till  'e  got  into  the  habit  of  it  and  couldn't  break 
'imself  of  it. 

They  'adn't  been  married  long  afore  she  'ad  her 
cousin,  Charlie  Burge,  come  in  as  barman,  and  a 
month  or  two  arter  that  'is  brother  Bob,  who  'ad 
been  spending  a  lot  o'  time  looking  for  work  instead 
o'  doing  it,  came  too.  They  was  so  comfortable  there 
that  their  father — a  'ouse-painter  by  trade — came 
round  to  see  whether  he  couldn't  paint  the  Blue  Lion 
up  a  bit  and  make  'em  look  smart,  so  that  they'd  get 

224 


Dixon's   Return 

more  trade.  He  was  one  o'  these  'ere  fust-class  'ouse- 
painters  that  can  go  to  sleep  on  a  ladder  holding  a 
brush  in  one  hand  and  a  pot  o'  paint  in  the  other, 
and  by  the  time  he  'ad  finished  painting  the  'ouse  it 
was  ready  to  be  done  all  over  agin. 

I  dare  say  that  George  Dixon — that  was  'is  name 
— wouldn't  ha'  minded  so  much  if  'is  wife  'ad  only 
been  civil,  but  instead  o'  that  she  used  to  make  fun 
of  'im  and  order  'im  about,  and  by-and-by  the  others 
began  to  try  the  same  thing.  As  I  said  afore,  Dixon 
was  a  very  quiet  man,  and  if  there  was  ever  anybody 
to  be  put  outside  Charlie  or  Bob  used  to  do  it.  They, 
tried  to  put  me  outside  once,  the  two  of  'em,  but  they; 
on'y  did  it  at  last  by  telling  me  that  somebody  'ad 
gone  off  and  left  a  pot  o'  beer  standing  on  the  pave- 
ment. They  was  both  of  'em  fairly  strong  young 
chaps  with  a  lot  of  bounce  in  'em,  and  she  used  to 
say  to  her  'usband  wot  fine  young  fellers  they  was, 
and  wot  a  pity  it  was  he  wasn't  like  'em. 

Talk  like  this  used  to  upset  George  Dixon  awful. 
Having  been  brought  up  careful  by  'is  mother,  and 
keeping  a  very  quiet,  respectable  'ouse — I  used  it  my- 
self— he  cert'nly  was  soft,  and  I  remember  'im  tell- 
ing me  once  that  he  didn't  believe  in  fighting,  and 
that  instead  of  hitting  people  you  ought  to  try  and 
persuade  them.  He  was  uncommon  fond  of  'is  wife, 
but  at  last  one  day,  arter  she  'ad  made  a  laughing- 
stock of  'im  in  the  bar,  he  up  and  spoke  sharp  to  her. 

225 


Dixon's   Return 

"Wot?"  ses  Mrs.  Dixon,  'ardly  able  to  believe  her 
ears. 

"Remember  who  you're  speaking  to;  that's  wot  I 
said,"  ses  Dixon. 

"'Ow  dare  you  talk  to  me  like  that?"  screams  'is 
wife,  turning  red  with  rage.  "Wot  d'ye  mean  by 
it?" 

"Because  you  seem  to  forget  who  is  master  'ere," 
ses  Dixon,  in  a  trembling  voice. 

"JWAf&r/V  she  ses,  firing  up.  "I'll  soon  show  you 
who's  master.  Go  out  o'  my  bar;  I  won't  'ave  you 
in  it.  D'ye  'ear?  Go  out  of  it." 

Dixon  turned  away  and  began  to  serve  a  customer. 

"D'ye  hear  wot  I  say?"  ses  Mrs.  Dixon,  stamping 
'er  foot.  "Go  out  o'  my  bar.  Here,  Charlie !" 

"Hullo!"  ses  'er  cousin,  who  'ad  been  standing 
looking  on  and  grinning. 

"Take  the  master  and  put  'im  into  the  parlour," 
ses  Mrs.  Dixon,  "and  don't  let  'im  come  out  till  he's 
begged  my  pardon." 

"Go  on,"  ses  Charlie,  brushing  up  'is  shirt-sleeves; 
"in  you  go.  You  'ear  wot  she  said." 

He  caught  'old  of  George  Dixon,  who  'ad  just 
turned  to  the  back  o'  the  bar  to  give  a  customer 
change  out  of  'arf  a  crown,  and  ran  'im  kicking  and 
struggling  into  the  parlour.  George  gave  'im  a  silly 
little  punch  in  the  chest,  and  got  such  a  bang  on  the 
'ead  back  that  at  fust  he  thought  it  was  knocked  off. 

226 


Dixon's   Return 

When  'e  came  to  'is  senses  agin  the  door  leading  to 
the  bar  was  shut,  and  'is  wife's  uncle,  who  'ad  been 
asleep  in  the  easy-chair,  was  finding  fault  with  'ira 
for  waking  'im  up. 


"  «  Go  and  sleep  somewhere  else,  then,*  ses  DLcon." 

"Why  can't  you  be  quiet  and  peaceable?"  he  ses, 
shaking  his  'ead  at  him.  "I've  been  'ard  at  work  all 
the  morning  thinking  wot  colour  to  paint  the  back- 
door, and  this  is  the  second  time  I've  been  woke  up 
since  dinner.  You're  old  enough  to  know  better." 

227 


Dixon's   Return 

"Go  and  sleep  somewhere  else,  then,"  ses  Dixon. 
"I  don't  want  you  'ere  at  all,  or  your  boys  neither. 
Go  and  give  somebody  else  a  treat;  I've  'ad  enough 
of  the  whole  pack  of  you." 

He  sat  down  and  put  'is  feet  in  the  fender,  and 
old  Burge,  as  soon  as  he  'ad  got  'is  senses  back,  went 
into  the  bar  and  complained  to  'is  niece,  and  she  came 
into  the  parlour  like  a  thunderstorm. 

"You'll  beg  my  uncle's  pardon  as  well  as  mine 
afore  you  come  out  o'  that  room,"  she  said  to  her 
'usband;  "mind  that." 

George  Dixon  didn't  say  a  word;  the  shame  of  it 
was  a'most  more  than  'e  could  stand.  Then  'e  got 
up  to  go  out  o'  the  parlour  and  Charlie  pushed  'im 
back  agin.  Three  times  he  tried,  and  then  'e  stood 
up  and  looked  at  'is  wife. 

"I've  been  a  good  'usband  to  you,"  he  ses;  "but 
there's  no  satisfying  you.  You  ought  to  ha'  married 
somebody  that  would  ha'  knocked  you  about,  and 
then  you'd  ha'  been  happy.  I'm  too  fond  of  a  quiet 
life  to  suit  you." 

"Are  you  going  to  beg  my  pardon  and  my  uncle's 
pardon?"  ses  'is  wife,  stamping  'er  foot. 

"No,"  ses  Dixon;  "I  am  not.  I'm  surprised  at 
you  asking  it." 

"Well,  you  don't  come  out  o'  this  room  till  you 
do,"  ses  'is  wife. 

"That  won't  hurt  me,"  ses  Dixon.  "I  couldn't 
228 


Dixon's   Return 

look  anybody  in  the  face  arter  being  pushed  out  o1 
my  own  bar." 

They  kept  'im  there  all  the  rest  o'  the  day,  and,  as 
'e  was  still  obstinate  when  bedtime  came,  Mrs.  Dixon, 
who  wasn't  to  be  beat,  brought  down  some  bedclothes 
and  'ad  a  bed  made  up  for  'im  on  the  sofa.  Some 
men  would  ha'  'ad  the  police  in  for  less  than  that, 
but  George  Dixon  'ad  got  a  great  deal  o'  pride  and 
'e  couldn't  bear  the  shame  of  it.  Instead  o'  that  'e 
acted  like  a  fourteen-year-old  boy  and  ran  away  to 
sea. 

They  found  'im  gone  when  they  came  down  in  the 
morning,  and  the  side-door  on  the  latch.  He  'ad  left 
a  letter  for  'is  wife  on  the  table,  telling  'er  wot  he  'ad 
done.  Short  and  sweet  it  was,  and  wound  up  with 
telling  'er  to  be  careful  that  her  uncle  and  cousins 
didn't  eat  'er  out  of  house  and  'ome. 

She  got  another  letter  two  days  arterward,  saying 
that  he  'ad  shipped  as  ordinary  seaman  on  an  Amer- 
ican barque  called  the  Seabird,  bound  for  California, 
and  that  'e  expected  to  be  away  a  year,  or  there- 
abouts. 

"It'll  do  'im  good,"  ses  old  Burge,  when  Mrs. 
Dixon  read  the  letter  to  'em.  "It's  a  'ard  life  is  the 
sea,  and  he'll  appreciate  his  'ome  when  'e  comes  back 
to  it  agin.  He  don't  know  when  'e's  well  off.  It's 
as  comfortable  a  'ome  as  a  man  could  wish  to  'ave." 

It  was  surprising  wot  a  little  difference  George 
229 


Dixon's   Return 

Dixon's  being  away  made  to  the  Blue  Lion.  Nobody 
seemed  to  miss  'im  much,  and  things  went  on  just  the 
same  as  afore  he  went.  Mrs.  Dixon  was  all  right 
with  most  people,  and  'er  relations  'ad  a  very  good 
time  of  it;  old  Burge  began  to  put  on  flesh  at  such  a 
rate  that  the  sight  of  a  ladder  made  'im  ill  a'most, 
and  Charlie  and  Bob  went  about  as  if  the  place  be- 
longed to  'em. 

They  'card  nothing  for  eight  months,  and  then  a 
letter  came  for  Mrs.  Dixon  from  her  'usband  in 
which  he  said  that  'e  had  left  the  Seabird  after  'aving 
had  a  time  which  made  'im  shiver  to  think  of.  He 
said  that  the  men  was  the  roughest  of  the  rough  and 
the  officers  was  worse,  and  that  he  'ad  hardly  'ad  a 
day  without  a  blow  from  one  or  the  other  since  he'd 
been  aboard.  He'd  been  knocked  down  with  a  hand- 
spike by  the  second  mate,  and  had  'ad  a  week  in  his 
bunk  with  a  kick  given  'im  by  the  boatswain.  He 
said  'e  was  now  on  the  Rochester  Castle,  bound  for 
Sydney,  and  he  'oped  for  better  times. 

That  was  all  they  'card  for  some  months,  and  then 
they  got  another  letter  saying  that  the  men  on  the 
Rochester  Castle  was,  if  anything,  worse  than  those 
on  the  Seabird,  and  that  he'd  begun  to  think  that  run- 
ning away  to  sea  was  diff'rent  to  wot  he'd  expected, 
and  that  he  supposed  'e'd  done  it  too  late  in  life.  He 
sent  'is  love  to  'is  wife  and  asked  'er  as  a  favour  to 
send  Uncle  Burge  and  'is  boys  away,  as  'e  didn't  want 

230 


Dixon's   Return 

to  find  them  there  when  'e  came  home,  because  they 
was  the  cause  of  all  his  sufferings. 

"He  don't  know  'is  best  friends,"  ses  old  Burge. 
*"E's  got  a  nasty  sperrit  I  don't  like  to  see." 

"I'll  'ave  a  word  with  'im  when  'e  does  come 
home,"  ses  Bob.  "I  s'pose  he  thinks  'imself  safe 
writing  letters  thousands  o'  miles  away." 

The  last  letter  they  'ad  came  from  Auckland,  and 
said  that  he  'ad  shipped  on  the  Monarch,  bound  for 
the  Albert  Docks,  and  he  'oped  soon  to  be  at  'ome 
and  managing  the  Blue  Lion,  same  as  in  the  old 
happy  days  afore  he  was  fool  enough  to  go  to  sea. 

That  was  the  very  last  letter,  and  some  time  arter- 
ward  the  Monarch  was  in  the  missing  list,  and  by- 
and-by  it  became  known  that  she  'ad  gone  down  with 
all  hands  not  long  arter  leaving  New  Zealand.  The 
only  difference  it  made  at  the  Blue  Lion  was  that 
Mrs.  Dixon  'ad  two  of  'er  dresses  dyed  black,  and 
the  others  wore  black  neckties  for  a  fortnight  and 
spoke  of  Dixon  as  pore  George,  and  said  it  was  a 
funny  world,  but  they  supposed  everything  was  for 
the  best. 

It  must  ha'  been  pretty  near  four  years  since 
George  Dixon  'ad  run  off  to  sea  when  Charlie,  who 
was  sitting  in  the  bar  one  arternoon  reading  the  paper, 
things  being  dull,  saw  a  man's  head  peep  through  the 
door  for  a  minute  and  then  disappear.  A'most  di- 

231 


Dixon's   Return 

reckly  arterward  it  looked  in  at  another  door  and 
then  disappeared  agin.  When  it  looked  in  at  the 
third  door  Charlie  'ad  put  down  'is  paper  and  was 
ready  for  it. 

"Who  are  you  looking  for?"  he  ses,  rather  sharp. 
"Wot  d'ye  want?  Are  you  'aving  a  game  of  peep- 
bo,  or  wot?" 

The  man  coughed  and  smiled,  and  then  'e  pushed 
the  door  open  gently  and  came  in,  and  stood  there 
fingering  'is  beard  as  though  'e  didn't  know  wot  to 
say. 

"I've  come  back,  Charlie,"  he  ses  at  last. 

"Wot,  George!"  ses  Charlie,  starting.  "Why,  I 
didn't  know  you  in  that  beard.  We  all  thought  you 
was  dead,  years  ago." 

"I  was  pretty  nearly,  Charlie,"  ses  Dixon,  shaking 
his  'ead.  "Ah!  I've  'ad  a  terrible  time  since  I  left 


"You  don't  seem  to  ha'  made  your  fortune,"  ses 
Charlie,  looking  down  at  'is  clothes.  "I'd  ha'  been 
ashamed  to  come  'ome  like  that  if  it  'ad  been  me." 

"I'm  wore  out,"  ses  Dixon,  leaning  agin  the  bar. 
"I've  got  no  pride  left;  it's  all  been  knocked  out  of 
me.  How's  Julia?" 

"She's  all  right,"  ses  Charlie.    "Here,  Ju " 

"H'sh!"  ses  Dixon,  reaching  over  the  bar  and  lay- 
ing his  'and  on  his  arm.  "Don't  let  'er  know  too 
sudden;  break  it  to  'er  gently." 

232 


Dixon's    Return 

"Fiddlesticks!"  ses  Charlie,  throwing  his  'and  off 
and  calling,  "Here,  Julia!  He's  come  back." 

Mrs.  Dixon  came  running  downstairs  and  into  tke 
bar.  "Good  gracious!"  she  ses,  staring  at  her  'us- 
band.  "Whoever'd  ha'  thought  o'  seeing  you  agin? 
Where  'ave  you  sprung  from?" 

"Ain't  you  glad  to  see  me,  Julia?"  ses  George 
Dixon. 

"Yes,  I  s'pose  so;  if  you've  come  back  to  behave 
yourself,"  ses  Mrs.  Dixon.  "What  'ave  you  got  to 
say  for  yourself  for  running  away  and  then  writing 
them  letters,  telling  me  to  get  rid  of  my  relations?" 

"That's  a  long  time  ago,  Julia,"  ses  Dixon,  raising 
the  flap  in  the  counter  and  going  into  the  bar.  "I've 
gone  through  a  great  deal  o'  suffering  since  then. 
I've  been  knocked  about  till  I  'adn't  got  any  feeling 
left  in  me;  I've  been  shipwrecked,  and  I've  'ad  to 
fight  for  my  life  with  savages," 

"Nobody  asked  you  to  run  away,"  ses  his  wife, 
edging  away  as  he  went  to  put  his  arm  round  'er 
waist.  "You'd  better  go  upstairs  and  put  on  some 
decent  clothes." 

Dixon  looked  at  'er  for  a  moment  and  then  he 
'ung  his  'ead. 

"I've  been  thinking  o*  you  and  of  seeing  you  agin 
every  day  since  I  went  away,  Julia,"  he  ses.  "You'd 
be  the  same  to  me  if  you  was  dressed  in  rags." 

He  went  upstairs  without  another  word,  and  old 
233 


Dixon's   Return 

Burge,  who  was  coming  down,  came  down  five  of  'em 
at  once  owing  to  Dixon  speaking  to  'im  afore  he 
knew  who  'e  was.  The  old  man  was  still  grumbling 


*«  You'd  better  go  upstairs  and  put  on  wme  decent  clothes." 

when  Dixon  came  down  agin,  and  said  he  believed 
he'd  done  it  a-purpose. 

"You  run  away  from  a  good  'ome,"  he  ses,  "and 

234 


Dixon's   Return 

the  best  wife  in  Wapping,  and  you  come  back  and 
frighten  people  'arf  out  o'  their  lives.  I  never  see 
such  a  feller  in  all  my  born  days." 

"I  was  so  glad  to  get  'ome  agin  I  didn't  think," 
ses  Dixon.  "I  hope  you're  not  'urt." 

He  started  telling  them  all  about  his  'ardships 
while  they  were  at  tea,  but  none  of  'em  seemed  to 
care  much  about  hearing  'em.  Bob  said  that  the  sea 
was  all  right  for  men,  and  that  other  people  were 
sure  not  to  like  it. 

"And  you  brought  it  all  on  yourself,"  ses  Charlie. 
"You've  only  got  yourself  to  thank  for  it.  I  *ad 
thought  o'  picking  a  bone  with  you  over  those  letters 
you  wrote." 

"Let's  'ope  Vs  come  back  more  sensible  than  wot 
'e  was  when  'e  went  away,"  ses  old  Burge,  with  'is 
mouth  full  o'  toast. 

By  the  time  he'd  been  back  a  couple  o'  days  George 
Dixon  could  see  that  'is  going  away  'adn't  done  any 
good  at  all.  Nobody  seemed  to  take  any  notice  of 
'im  or  wot  he  said,  and  at  last,  arter  a  word  or  two 
with  Charlie  about  the  rough  way  he  spoke  to  some 
o'  the  customers,  Charlie  came  in  to  Mrs.  Dixon  and 
said  that  he  was  at  'is  old  tricks  of  interfering,  and 
he  would  not  'ave  it. 

"Well,  he'd  better  keep  out  o'  the  bar  altogether," 
ses  Mrs.  Dixon.  "There's  no  need  for  'im  to  go 
there ;  we  managed  all  right  while  'e  was  away." 

235 


Dixon's   Return 

"Do  you  mean  I'm  not  to  go  into  my  own  bar?"  ses 
Dixon,  stammering. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  ses  Mrs.  Dixon.  "You  kept  out 
of  it  for  four  years  to  please  yourself,  and  now  you 
can  keep  out  of  it  to  please  me." 

"I've  put  you  out  o'  the  bar  before,"  ses  Charlie, 
"and  if  you  come  messing  about  with  me  any  more 
I'll  do  it  agin.  So  now  you  know." 

He  walked  back  into  the  bar  whistling,  and  George 
Dixon,  arter  sitting  still  for  a  long  time  thinking, 
got  up  and  went  into  the  bar,  and  he'd  'ardly  got  his 
foot  inside  afore  Charlie  caught  'old  of  'im  by  the 
shoulder  and  shoved  '5m  back  into  the  parlour  agin. 

"I  told  you  wot  it  would  be,"  ses  Mrs.  Dixon, 
looking  up  from  'er  sewing.  "You've  only  got  your 
interfering  ways  to  thank  for  it." 

"This  is  a  fine  state  of  affairs  in  my  own  'ouse," 
ses  Dixon,  'ardly  able  to  speak.  "You've  got  no 
proper  feeling  for  your  husband,  Julia,  else  you 
wouldn't  allow  it.  Why,  I  was  happier  at  sea  than 
wot  I  am  'ere." 

"Well,  you'd  better  go  back  to  it  if  you're  so  fond 
of  it,"  ses  'is  wife. 

"I  think  I  'ad,"  ses  Dixon.  "If  I  can't  be  master 
in  my  own  'ouse  I'm  better  at  sea,  hard  as  it  is.  You 
must  choose  between  us,  Julia — me  or  your  relations. 
I  won't  sleep  under  the  same  roof  as  them  for  another 
night.  Am  I  to  go?" 

236 


Dixon's   Return 

"Please  yourself,"  ses  'is  wife.  "I  don't  mind  your 
staying  'ere  so  long  as  you  behave  yourself,  but  the 
others  won't  go;  you  can  make  your  mind  easy  on 
that." 

"I'll  go  and  look  for  another  ship,  then,"  ses 
Dixon,  taking  up  'is  cap.  "I'm  not  wanted  here. 
P'r'aps  you  wouldn't  mind  'aving  some  clothes 
packed  into  a  chest  for  me  so  as  I  can  go  away  de- 
cent." 

He  looked  round  at  'is  wife,  as  though  'e  expected 
she'd  ask  'im  not  to  go,  but  she  took  no  notice,  and 
he  opened  the  door  softly  and  went  out,  while  old 
Burge,  who  'ad  come  into  the  room  and  'eard  what 
he  was  saying,  trotted  off  upstairs  to  pack  'is  chest 
for  'im. 

In  two  hours  'e  was  back  agin  and  more  cheerful 
than  he  'ad  been  since  he  'ad  come  'ome.  Bob  was  in 
the  bar  and  the  others  were  just  sitting  down  to  tea, 
and  a  big  chest,  nicely  corded,  stood  on  the  floor  in 
the  corner  of  the  rooml 

"That's  right,"  he  ses,  looking  at  it;  "that's  just 
wot  I  wanted." 

"It's  as  full  as  it  can  be,"  ses  old  Burge.  "I  done 
it  for  you  myself.  'Ave  you  got  a  ship?" 

"I  'ave,"  ses  Dixon.  "A  jolly  good  ship.  No 
more  hardships  for  me  this  time.  I've  got  a  berth 
as  captain." 

"Wot?"  ses  'is  wife.     "Captain?     You!" 

237 


Dixon's   Return 

"Yes,"  ses  Dixon,  smiling  at  her.  "You  can  sail 
with  me  if  you  like." 

"Thankee,"  ses  Mrs.  Dixon,  "I'm  quite  comfort- 
able where  I  am." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you've  got  a  master's  berth?" 
ses  Charlie,  staring  at  'im. 

"I  do,"  ses  Dixon;  "master  and  owner." 

Charlie  coughed.  "Wot's  the  name  of  the  ship?" 
he  asks,  winking  at  the  others. 

"The  BLUE  LION,"  ses  Dixon,  in  a  voice  that 
made  'em  all  start.  "I'm  shipping  a  new  crew  and 
I  pay  off  the  old  one  to-night.  You  first,  my  lad." 

"Pay  off,"  ses  Charlie,  leaning  back  in  'is  chair  and 
staring  at  'im  in  a  puzzled  way.  "Blue  Lion?*1 

"Yes,"  ses  Dixon,  in  the  same  loud  voice.  **When 
I  came  'ome  the  other  day  I  thought  p'r'aps  I'd  let 
bygones  be  bygones,  and  I  laid  low  for  a  bit  to  see 
whether  any  of  you  deserved  it.  I  went  to  sea  to  get 
hardened — and  I  got  hard.  I've  fought  men  that 
would  eat  you  at  a  meal.  I've  'ad  more  blows  in  a 
week  than  you've  'ad  in  a  lifetime,  you  fat-faced  land- 
lubber." 

He  walked  to  the  door  leading  to  the  bar,  where 
Bob  was  doing  'is  best  to  serve  customers  and  listen 
at  the  same  time,  and  arter  locking  it  put  the  key  in 
'is  pocket.  Then  'e  put  his  'and  in  'is  pocket  and 
slapped  some  money  down  on  the  table  in  front  o1 
Charlie. 

238 


Dixon's   Return 

"There's  a  month's  pay  instead  o'  notice,"  he  ses. 
"Now  git." 

"George!"  screams  'is  wife.  "'Ow  dare  you? 
'Ave  you  gone  crazy?" 

"I'm  surprised  at  you,"  ses  old  Burge,  who'd  been 
looking  on  with  'is  mouth  wide  open,  and  pinching 
'imself  to  see  whether  'e  wasn't  dreaming. 

"I  don't  go  for  your  orders,"  ses  Charlie,  getting 
up.  "Wot  d'ye  mean  by  locking  that  door?" 

"Wot!"  roars  Dixon.  "Hang  it!  I  mustn't  lock 
a  door  without  asking  my  barman  now.  Pack  up  and 
be  off,  you  swab,  afore  I  start  on  you." 

Charlie  gave  a  growl  and  rushed  at  'im,  and  the 
next  moment  'e  was  down  on  the  floor  with  the  'ard- 
est  bang  in  the  face  that  he'd  ever  'ad  in  'is  life.  Mrs. 
Dixon  screamed  and  ran  into  the  kitchen,  follered  by 
old  Burge,  who  went  in  to  tell  'er  not  to  be  frightened. 
Charlie  got  up  and  went  for  Dixon  agin;  but  he  'ad 
come  back  as  'ard  as  nails  and  'ad  a  rushing  style  o* 
fighting  that  took  Charlie's  breath  away.  By  the 
time  Bob  'ad  left  the  bar  to  take  care  of  itself,  and 
run  round  and  got  in  the  back  way,  Charlie  had  'ad 
as  much  as  'e  wanted  and  was  lying  on  the  sea-chest 
in  the  corner  trying  to  get  'is  breath. 

"Yes?  Wot  d'ye  want?"  ses  Dixon,  with  a  growl, 
as  Bob  came  in  at  the  door. 

He  was  such  a  'orrible  figure,  with  the  blood  on  'is 
face  and  'is  beard  sticking  out  all  ways,  that  Bob, 

239 


Dixon's  Return 

instead  of  doing  wot  he  'ad  come  round  for,  stood 
in  the  doorway  staring  at  'im  without  a  word. 


•«  Charlie  had  'ad  as  much  as  'e  wanted  and  was  lying  on  the  sea-chest.** 

"I'm  paying  off,"  ses  Dixon.     '"Ave  you  got  any- 
thing to  say  agin  it?" 

"No,"  ses  Bob,  drawing  back. 
"You  and  Charlie'll  go  now,"  ses  Dixon,  taking 
240 


Dixon's  Return 

out  some  money.  "The  old  man  can  stay  on  for  a 
month  to  give  'im  time  to  look  round.  Don't  look 
at  me  that  way,  else  I'll  knock  your  'ead  off." 


'*  The  way  she  answered  her  'usband  was  a  pleasure  to  every  married  I 
in  the  bar." 


He  started  counting  out  Bob's  money  just  as  old 
Burge  and  Mrs.  Dixon,  hearing  all  quiet,  came  in 
out  of  the  kitchen. 

"Don't  you  be  alarmed  on  my  account,  my  dear,** 
241 


Dixon's  Return 

he  ses,  turning  to  'is  wife;  "it's  child's  play  to  wot 
I've  been  used  to.  I'll  just  see  these  two  mistaken 
young  fellers  off  the  premises,  and  then  we'll  'ave  a 
cup  o'  tea  while  the  old  man  minds  the  bar." 

Mrs.  Dixon  tried  to  speak,  but  'er  temper  was  too 
much  for  'er.  She  looked  from  her  'usband  to 
Charlie  and  Bob  and  then  back  at  'im  agin  and  caught 
'er  breath. 

"That's  right,"  ses  Dixon,  nodding  his  'ead  at  her. 
"I'm  master  and  owner  of  the  Blue  Lion  and  you're 
first  mate.  When  I'm  speaking  you  keep  quiet;  that's 
dis-sipline." 

I  was  in  that  bar  about  three  months  arterward, 
and  I  never  saw  such  a  change  in  any  woman  as  there 
was  in  Mrs.  Dixon.  Of  all  the  nice-mannered,  soft- 
spoken  landladies  I've  ever  seen,  she  was  the  best, 
and  on'y  to  'ear  the  way  she  answered  her  'usband 
when  he  spoke  to  'er  was  a  pleasure  to  every  married 
man  in  the  bar. 


242 


A   SPIRIT   OF   AVARICE 


A    SPIRIT    OF    AVARICE 

MR.  JOHN  BLOWS  stood  listening  to  the 
foreman  with  an  air  of  lofty  disdain.  He 
was  a  free-born  Englishman,  and  yet  he 
had  been  summarily  paid  off  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the 
morning  and  told  that  his  valuable  services  would  no 
longer  be  required.  More  than  that,  the  foreman 
had  passed  certain  strictures  upon  his  features  which, 
however  true  they  might  be,  were  quite  irrelevant  to 
the  fact  that  Mr.  Blows  had  been  discovered  slumber- 
ing in  a  shed  when  he  should  have  been  laying  bricks. 

"Take  your  ugly  face  off  these  'ere  works,"  said 
the  foreman;  "take  it  'ome  and  bury  it  in  the  back- 
yard. Anybody'll  be  glad  to  lend  you  a  spade." 

Mr.  Blows,  in  a  somewhat  fluent  reply,  reflected 
severely  on  the  foreman's  immediate  ancestors,  and 
the  strange  lack  of  good-feeling  and  public  spirit  they 
had  exhibited  by  allowing  him  to  grow  up. 

"Take  it  'ome  and  bury  it,"  said  the  foreman 
again.  "Not  under  any  plants  you've  got  a  liking 
for." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Blows,  still  referring  to  his 
foe's  parents,  and  now  endeavouring  to  make  excuses 

245 


A  Spirit  of  Avarice 

for  them — "I  s'pose  they  was  so  pleased,  and  so  sur- 
prised when  they  found  that  you  was  a  'uman  being, 
that  they  didn't  mind  anything  else." 

He  walked  off  with  his  head  in  the  air,  and  the 
other  men,  who  had  partially  suspended  work  to 
listen,  resumed  their  labours.  A  modest  pint  at  the 
Rising  Sun  revived  his  drooping  spirits,  and  he 
walked  home  thinking  of  several  things  which  he 
might  have  said  to  the  foreman  if  he  had  only 
thought  of  them  in  time. 

He  paused  at  the  open  door  of  his  house  and, 
looking  in,  sniffed  at  the  smell  of  mottled  soap  and 
dirty  water  which  pervaded  it.  The  stairs  were  wet, 
and  a  pail  stood  in  the  narrow  passage.  From  the 
kitchen  came  the  sounds  of  crying  children  and  a 
scolding  mother.  Master  Joseph  Henry  Blows,  aged 
three,  was  "holding  his  breath,"  and  the  family  were 
all  aghast  at  the  length  of  his  performance.  He  re- 
covered it  as  his  father  entered  the  room,  and 
drowned,  without  distressing  himself,  the  impotent 
efforts  of  the  others.  Mrs.  Blows  turned  upon  her 
husband  a  look  of  hot  inquiry. 

"I've  got  the  chuck,"  he  said,  surlily. 

"What,  again?"  said  the  unfortunate  woman. 

"Yes,  again,"  repeated  her  husband. 

Mrs.  Blows  turned  away,  and  dropping  into  a 
chair  threw  her  apron  over  her  head  and  burst  into 
discordant  weeping.  Two  little  Blows,  who  had 

246 


A  Spirit  of  Avarice 

ceased  their  outcries,  resumed  them  again  from  sheer 
sympathy. 

"Stop  it,"  yelled  the  indignant  Mr.  Blows;  "stop 
it  at  once;  d'ye  hear?" 

"I  wish  I'd  never  seen  you,"  sobbed  his  wife  from 
behind  her  apron.  "Of  all  the  lazy,  idle,  drunken, 
good-for-nothing " 

"Go  on,"  said  Mr.  Blows,  grimly. 

"You're  more  trouble  than  you're  worth,"  declared 
Mrs.  Blows.  "Look  at  your  father,  my  dears,"  she 
continued,  taking  the  apron  away  from  her  face; 
"take  a  good  look  at  him,  and  mind  you  don't  grow 
up  like  it." 

Mr.  Blows  met  the  combined  gaze  of  his  innocent 
offspring  with  a  dark  scowl,  and  then  fell  to  moodily 
walking  up  and  down  the  passage  until  he  fell  over 
the  pail.  At  that  his  mood  changed,  and,  turning 
fiercely,  he  kicked  that  useful  article  up  and  down 
the  passage  until  he  was  tired. 

"I've  'ad  enough  of  it,"  he  muttered.  He  stopped 
at  the  kitchen-door  and,  putting  his  hand  in  his  pocket, 
threw  a  handful  of  change  on  to  the  floor  and  swung 
out  of  the  house. 

Another  pint  of  beer  confirmed  him  in  his  resolu- 
tion. He  'would  go  far  away  and  make  a  fresh  start 
in  the  world.  The  morning  was  bright  and  the  air 
fresh,  and  a  pleasant  sense  of  freedom  and  adventure 
possessed  his  soul  as  he  walked.  At  a  swinging  pace 

247 


A  Spirit  of  Avarice 

he  soon  left  Gravelton  behind  him,  and,  coming  to 
the  river,  sat  down  to  smoke  a  final  pipe  before  turn- 
ing his  back  forever  on  a  town  which  had  treated  him 
so  badly. 

The  river  murmured  agreeably  and  the  rushes 
stirred  softly  in  the  breeze;  Mr.  Blows,  who  could 
fall  asleep  on  an  upturned  pail,  succumbed  to  the  in- 
fluence at  once;  the  pipe  dropped  from  his  mouth 
and  he  snored  peacefully. 

He  was  awakened  by  a  choking  scream,  and,  start- 
ing up  hastily,  looked  about  for  the  cause.  Then  in 
the  water  he  saw  the  little  white  face  of  Billy  Clem- 
ents, and  wading  in  up  to  his  middle  he  reached  out 
and,  catching  the  child  by  the  hair,  drew  him  to  the 
bank  and  set  him  on  his  feet.  Still  screaming  with 
terror,  Billy  threw  up  some  of  the  water  he  had  swal- 
lowed, and  without  turning  his  head  made  off  in  the 
direction  of  home,  calling  piteously  upon  his  mother. 

Mr.  Blows,  shivering  on  the  bank,  watched  him 
out  of  sight,  and,  missing  his  cap,  was  just  in  time  to 
see  that  friend  of  several  seasons  slowly  sinking  in  the 
middle  of  the  river.  He  squeezed  the  water  from  his 
trousers  and,  crossing  the  bridge,  set  off  across  the 
meadows. 

His  self-imposed  term  of  bachelorhood  lasted  just 
three  months,  at  the  end  of  which  time  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  enact  the  part  of  the  generous  husband  and 

248 


A  Spirit  of  Avarice 

forgive  his  wife  everything.  He  would  not  go  into 
details,  but  issue  one  big,  magnanimous  pardon. 

Full  of  these  lofty  ideas  he  set  off  in  the  direction 
of  home  again.  It  was  a  three-days'  tramp,  and  the 
evening  of  the  third  day  saw  him  but  a  bare  two 
miles  from  home.  He  clambered  up  the  bank  at  the 
side  of  the  road  and,  sprawling  at  his  ease,  smoked 
quietly  in  the  moonlight. 

A  waggon  piled  up  with  straw  came  jolting  and 
creaking  toward  him.  The  driver  sat  dozing  on  the 
shafts,  and  Mr.  Blows  smiled  pleasantly  as  he  recog- 
nised the  first  face  of  a  friend  he  had  seen  for  three 
months.  He  thrust  his  pipe  in  his  pocket  and,  rising 
to  his  feet,  clambered  on  to  the  back  of  the  waggon, 
and  lying  face  downward  on  the  straw  peered  down 
at  the  unconscious  driver  below. 

"I'll  give  old  Joe  a  surprise,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"He'll  be  the  first  to  welcome  me  back." 

"Joe,"  he  said,  softly.     "'Ow  goes  it,  old  pal?" 

Mr.  Joe  Carter,  still  dozing,  opened  his  eyes  at  the 
sound  of  his  name  and  looked  round;  then,  coming 
to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  been  dreaming,  closed 
them  again. 

"I'm  a-looking  at  you,  Joe,"  said  Mr.  Blows,  wag- 
gishly. "I  can  see  you." 

Mr.  Carter  looked  up  sharply  and,  catching  sight 
of  the  grinning  features  of  Mr.  Blows  protruding 
over  the  edge  of  the  straw,  threw  up  his  arms  with  a 

249 


A  Spirit  of  Avarice 

piercing  shriek  and  fell  off  the  shafts  on  to  the  road. 
The  astounded  Mr.  Blows,  raising  himself  on  his 
hands,  saw  him  pick  himself  up  and,  giving  vent  to 
a  series  of  fearsome  yelps,  run  clumsily  back  along 
the  road. 


"  'Joe! '  shouted  Mr.  Blows.  « J-O-O-OE  ! '  " 

"Joe!"  shouted  Mr.  Blows.    "J-O-O-OE!" 
Mr.  Carter  put  his  hands  to  his  ears  and  ran  on 
blindly,  while  his  friend,  sitting  on  the  top  of  the 
straw,  regarded  his  proceedings  with  mixed  feelings 
of  surprise  and  indignation. 

250 


A  Spirit  of  Avarice 

"It  can't  be  that  tanner  'e  owes  me,"  he  mused, 
"and  yet  I  don't  know  what  else  it  can  be.  I  never 
see  a  man  so  jumpy." 

He  continued  to  speculate  while  the  old  horse,  un- 
disturbed by  the  driver's  absence,  placidly  continued 
its  journey.  A  mile  farther,  however,  he  got  down 
to  take  the  short  cut  by  the  fields. 

"If  Joe  can't  look  after  his  'orse  and  cart,"  he  said, 
primly,  as  he  watched  it  along  the  road,  "it's  not  my 
business." 

The  footpath  was  not  much  used  at  that  time  of 
night,  and  he  only  met  one  man.  They  were  in  the 
shadow  of  the  trees  which  fringed  the  new  cemetery 
as  they  passed,  and  both  peered.  The  stranger  was 
satisfied  first  and,  to  Mr.  Blows's  growing  indigna- 
tion, first  gave  a  leap  backward  which  would  not  have 
disgraced  an  acrobat,  and  then  made  off  across  the 
field  with  hideous  outcries. 

"If  I  get  'old  of  some  of  you,"  said  the  offended 
Mr.  Blows,  "I'll  give  you  something  to  holler 
for." 

He  pursued  his  way  grumbling,  and  insensibly 
slackened  his  pace  as  he  drew  near  home.  A  remnant 
of  conscience  which  had  stuck  to  him  without  encour- 
agement for  thirty-five  years  persisted  in  suggesting 
that  he  had  behaved  badly.  It  also  made  a  few  ill- 
bred  inquiries  as  to  how  his  wife  and  children  had 
subsisted  for  the  last  three  months.  He  stood  out- 

251 


A  Spirit  of  Avarice 

side  the  house  for  a  short  space,  and  then,  opening 
the  door  softly,  walked  in. 

The  kitchen-door  stood  open,  and  his  wife  in  a 
black  dress  sat  sewing  by  the  light  of  a  smoky  lamp. 
She  looked  up  as  she  heard  his  footsteps,  and  then, 
without  a  word,  slid  from  the  chair  full  length  to  the 
floor. 

"Go  on,"  said  Mr.  Blows,  bitterly;  "keep  it  up. 
Don't  mind  me." 

Mrs.  Blows  paid  no  heed;  her  face  was  white  and 
her  eyes  were  closed.  Her  husband,  with  a  dawning 
perception  of  the  state  of  affairs,  drew  a  mug  of 
water  from  the  tap  and  flung  it  over  her.  She  opened 
her  eyes  and  gave  a  faint  scream,  and  then,  scram- 
bling to  her  feet,  tottered  toward  him  and  sobbed  on 
his  breast. 

"There,  there,"  said  Mr.  Blows.  "Don't  take  on; 
I  forgive  you." 

"Oh,  John,"  said  his  wife,  sobbing  convulsively, 
"I  thought  you  was  dead.  I  thought  you  was  dead. 
It's  only  a  fortnight  ago  since  we  buried  you !" 

"Buried  me?"  said  the  startled  Mr.  Blows. 
"Buried  me?" 

"I  shall  wake  up  and  find  I'm  dreaming,"  wailed 
Mrs.  Blows;  "I  know  I  shall.  I'm  always  dreaming 
that  you're  not  dead.  Night  before  last  I  dreamt 
that  you  was  alive,  and  I  woke  up  sobbing  as  if  my 
'art  would  break." 

252 


A  Spirit  of  Avarice 

"Sobbing?"  said  Mr.  Blows,  with  a  scowl. 

"For  joy,  John,"  explained  his  wife. 

Mr.  Blows  was  about  to  ask  for  a  further  explana- 
tion of  the  mystery  when  he  stopped,  and  regarded 
with  much  interest  a  fair-sized  cask  which  stood  in 
one  corner. 

"A  cask  o'  beer,"  he  said,  staring,  as  he  took  a 
glass  from  the  dresser  and  crossed  over  to  it.  "You 
don't  seem  to  'ave  taken  much  'arm  during  my—my; 
going  after  work." 

"We  'ad  it  for  the  funeral,  John,"  said  his  wife; 
"leastways,  we  'ad  two;  this  is  the  second." 

Mr.  Blows,  who  had  filled  the  glass,  set  it  down 
on  the  table  untasted ;  things  seemed  a  trifle  uncanny. 

"Go  on,"  said  Mrs.  Blows;  "you've  got  more  right 
to  it  than  anybody  else.  Fancy  'aving  you  here  drink- 
ing up  the  beer  for  your  own  funeral." 

"I  don't  understand  what  you're  a-driving  at,"  re- 
torted Mr.  Blows,  drinking  somewhat  gingerly  from 
the  glass.  "'Ow  could  there  be  a  funeral  without 
me?" 

"It's  all  a  mistake,"  said  the  overjoyed  Mrs. 
Blows;  "we  must  have  buried  somebody  else.  But 
such  a  funeral,  John;  you  would  ha'  been  proud  if 
you  could  ha'  seen  it.  All  Gravelton  followed, 
nearly.  There  was  the  boys'  drum  and  fife  band,  and 
the  Ancient  Order  of  Camels,  what  you  used  to  be- 
long to,  turned  out  with  their  brass  band  and  banners 

253 


A  Spirit  of  Avarice 

— all  the  people  marching  four  abreast  and  some- 
times five." 

Mr.  Blows's  face  softened;  he  had  no  idea  that 
he  had  established  himself  so  firmly  in  the  affections 
of  his  fellow-townsmen. 

"Four  mourning  carriages,"  continued  his  wife, 
"and  the — the  hearse,  all  covered  in  flowers  so  that 
you  couldn't  see  it  'ardly.  One  wreath  cost  two 
pounds." 

Mr.  Blows  endeavoured  to  conceal  his  gratification 
beneath  a  mask  of  surliness.  "Waste  o'  money,"  he 
growled,  and  stooping  to  the  cask  drew  himself  an- 
other glass  of  beer. 

"Some  o'  the  gentry  sent  their  carriages  to  fol- 
low," said  Mrs.  Blows,  sitting  down  and  clasping  her 
hands  in  her  lap. 

"I  know  one  or  two  that  'ad  a  liking  for  me,"  said 
Mr.  Blows,  almost  blushing. 

"And  to  think  that  it's  all  a  mistake,"  continued 
his  wife.  "But  I  thought  it  was  you;  it  was  dressed 
like  you,  and  your  cap  was  found  near  it." 

"H'm,"  said  Mr.  Blows;  "a  pretty  mess  you've 
been  and  made  of  it.  Here's  people  been  giving  two 
pounds  for  wreaths  and  turning  up  with  brass  bands 
and  banners  because  they  thought  it  was  me,  and  it's 
all  been  wasted." 

"It  wasn't  my  fault,"  said  his  wife.  "Little  Billy 
Clements  came  running  'ome  the  day  you  went  away 

254 


A  Spirit  of  Avarice 

and  said  'e'd  fallen  in  the  water,  and  you'd  gone  in 
and  pulled  'im  out.  He  said  'e  thought  you  was 
drownded,  and  when  you  didn't  come  'ome  I  natu- 
rally thought  so  too.  What  else  could  I  think?" 


*  'They  dragged  the  river,'  resumed  his  wife,  '  and  found  the  cap."  ' 

Mr.  Blows  coughed,  and  holding  his  glass  up  to 
the  light  regarded  it  with  a  preoccupied  air. 

"They  dragged  the  river,"  resumed  his  wife,  "and 
found  the  cap,  but  they  didn't  find  the  body  till  nine 

255 


A  Spirit  of  Avarice 

weeks  afterward.  There  was  a  inquest  at  the  Peal 
o'  Bells,  and  I  identified  you,  and  all  that  grand 
funeral  was  because  they  thought  you'd  lost  your  life 
saving  little  Billy.  They  said  you  was  a  hero." 

"You've  made  a  nice  mess  of  it,"  repeated  Mr. 
Blows. 

"The  rector  preached  the  sermon,"  continued  his 
wife;  "a  beautiful  sermon  it  was,  too.  I  wish  you'd 
been  there  to  hear  it;  I  should  'ave  enjoyed  it  ever  so 
much  better.  He  said  that  nobody  was  more  sur- 
prised than  what  'e  was  at  your  doing  such  a  thing, 
and  that  it  only  showed  'ow  little  we  knowed  our 
fellow-creatures.  He  said  that  it  proved  there  was 
good  in  all  of  us  if  we  only  gave  it  a  chance  to  come 
out." 

Mr.  Blows  eyed  her  suspiciously,  but  she  sat  think- 
ing and  staring  at  the  floor. 

"I  s'pose  we  shall  have  to  give  the  money  back 
now,"  she  said,  at  last. 

"Money!"  said  the  other;  "what  money?" 

"Money  that  was  collected  for  us,"  replied  his 
wife.  "One  'undered  and  eighty-three  pounds  seven 
shillings  and  fourpence." 

Mr.  Blows  took  a  long  breath.  "'Ow  much?"  he 
said,  faintly;  "say  it  agin." 

His  wife  obeyed. 

"Show  it  to  me,"  said  the  other,  in  trembling  tones; 
"let's  'ave  a  look  at  it.  Let's  'old  some  of  it." 

256 


A  Spirit  of  Avarice 

"I  can't,"  was  the  reply;  "there's  a  committee  of 
the  Camels  took  charge  of  it,  and  they  pay  my  rent 
and  allow  me  ten  shillings  a  week.  Now  I  s'pose  it'll 
have  to  be  given  back?" 

"Don't  you  talk  nonsense,"  said  Mr.  Blows,  vio- 
lently. "You  go  to  them  interfering  Camels  and  say 
you  want  your  money — all  of  it.  Say  you're  going 
to  Australia.  Say  it  was  my  last  dying  wish." 

Mrs.  Blows  puckered  her  brow. 

"I'll  keep  quiet  upstairs  till  you've  got  it,"  con- 
tinued her  husband,  rapidly.  "There  was  only  two 
men  saw  me,  and  I  can  see  now  that  they  thought  I 
was  my  own  ghost.  Send  the  kids  off  to  your  mother 
for  a  few  days." 

His  wife  sent  them  off  next  morning,  and  a  little 
later  was  able  to  tell  him  that  his  surmise  as  to  his 
friends'  mistake  was  correct.  All  Gravelton  was 
thrilled  by  the  news  that  the  spiritual  part  of  Mr. 
John  Blows  was  walking  the  earth,  and  much  exer- 
cised as  to  his  reasons  for  so  doing. 

"Seemed  such  a  monkey  trick  for  'im  to  do,"  com- 
plained Mr.  Carter,  to  the  listening  circle  at  the  Peal 
o'  Bells.  "  'I'm  a-looking  at  you,  Joe,'  he  ses,  and 
he  waggled  his  'ead  as  if  it  was  made  of  india- 
rubber." 

"He'd  got  something  on  'is  mind  what  he  wanted 
to  tell  you,"  said  a  listener,  severely;  "you  ought  to 
*ave  stopped,  Joe,  and  asked  'irn  what  it  was." 

257 


A  Spirit  of  Avarice 

"I  think  I  see  myself,"  said  the  shivering  Mr.  Car- 
ter. "I  think  I  see  myself." 

"Then  he  wouldn't  'ave  troubled  you  any  more," 
said  the  other. 

Mr.  Carter  turned  pale  and  eyed  him  fixedly. 

"PYaps  it  was  only  a  death-warning,"  said 
another  man. 

"What  d'ye  mean,  'only  a  death-warning'  ?"  de- 
manded the  unfortunate  Mr.  Carter;  "you  don't 
know  what  you're  talking  about." 

"I  'ad  an  uncle  o'  mine  see  a  ghost  once,"  said  a 
third  man,  anxious  to  relieve  the  tension. 

"And  what  'appened?"  inquired  the  first  speaker. 

"I'll  tell  you  after  Joe's  gone,"  said  the  other,  with 
rare  consideration. 

Mr.  Carter  called  for  some  more  beer  and  told  the 
barmaid  to  put  a  little  gin  in  it.  In  a  pitiable  state 
of  "nerves"  he  sat  at  the  extreme  end  of  a  bench,  and 
felt  that  he  was  an  object  of  unwholesome  interest 
to  his  acquaintances.  The  finishing  touch  was  put  to 
his  discomfiture  when  a  well-meaning  friend  in  a 
vague  and  disjointed  way  advised  him  to  give  up 
drink,  swearing,  and  any  other  bad  habits  which  he 
might  have  contracted. 

The  committee  of  the  Ancient  Order  of  Camels 
took  the  news  calmly,  and  classed  it  with  pink  rats 
and  other  abnormalities.  In  reply  to  Mrs.  Blov.Vs 
request  for  the  capital  sum,  they  expressed  astonish- 

258 


A   Spirit  of  Avarice 

ment  that  she  could  be  willing  to  tear  herself  away 
from  the  hero's  grave,  and  spoke  of  the  pain  which 
such  an  act  on  her  part  would  cause  him  in  the  event 
of  his  being  conscious  of  it.  In  order  to  show  that 


f<  In  a  pitiable  state  of  '  nerves  '  he  sat  at  the  extreme  end  of  a  bench.** 

they  were  reasonable  men,  they  allowed  her  an  extra 
shilling  that  week. 

The  hero  threw  the  dole  on  the  bedroom  floor,  and 
in  a  speech  bristling  with  personalities,  consigned  the 
committee  to  perdition.  The  confinement  was  begin- 

259 


A  Spirit  of  Avarice 

ning  to  tell  upon  him,  and  two  nights  afterward,  just 
before  midnight,  he  slipped  out  for  a  breath  of  fresh 
air. 

It  was  a  clear  night,  and  all  Gravelton  with  one 
exception,  appeared  to  have  gone  to  bed.  The  ex- 
ception was  Police-constable  Collins,  and  he,  aftef 
tracking  the  skulking  figure  of  Mr.  Blows  and  finally 
bringing  it  to  bay  in  a  doorway,  kept  his  for  a  fort- 
night. As  a  sensible  man,  Mr.  Blows  took  no  credit 
to  himself  for  the  circumstance,  but  a  natural  feeling 
of  satisfaction  at  the  discomfiture  of  a  member  of  a 
force  for  which  he  had  long  entertained  a  strong  ob- 
jection could  not  be  denied. 

Gravelton  debated  this  new  appearance  with  bated 
breath,  and  even  the  purblind  committee  of  the  Cam- 
els had  to  alter  their  views.  They  no  longer  denied 
the  supernatural  nature  of  the  manifestations,  but, 
with  a  strange  misunderstanding  of  Mr.  Blows's  de- 
sires, attributed  his  restlessness  to  dissatisfaction  with 
the  projected  tombstone,  and,  having  plenty  of  funds, 
amended  their  order  for  a  plain  stone  at  ten  guineas 
to  one  in  pink  marble  at  twenty-five. 

"That  there  committee,"  said  Mr.  Blows  to  his 
wife,  in  a  trembling  voice,  as  he  heard  of  the  altera- 
tion— "that  there  committee  seem  to  think  that  they 
can  play  about  with  my  money  as  they  like.  You  go 
and  tell  'em  you  won't  'ave  it.  And  say  you've  given 
up  the  idea  of  going  to  Australia  and  you  want  the 

260 


A  Spirit   of  Avarice 

money  to  open  a  shop  with.  We'll  take  a  little  pub 
somewhere." 

Mrs.  Blows  went,  and  returned  in  tears,  and  for 
two  entire  days  her  husband,  a  prey  to  gloom,  sat 
trying  to  evolve  fresh  and  original  ideas  for  the 
possession  of  the  money.  On  the  evening  of  the 
second  day  he  became  low-spirited,  and  going  down 
to  the  kitchen  took  a  glass  from  the  dresser  and  sat 
down  by  the  beer-cask. 

Almost  insensibly  he  began  to  take  a  brighter  view 
of  things.  It  was  Saturday  night  and  his  wife  was 
out.  He  shook  his  head  indulgently  as  he  thought 
of  her,  and  began  to  realise  how  foolish  he  had  been 
to  entrust  such  a  delicate  mission  to  a  woman.  The 
Ancient  Order  of  Camels  wanted  a  man  to  talk  to 
them — a  man  who  knew  the  world  and  could  assail 
them  with  unanswerable  arguments.  Having  applied 
every  known  test  to  make  sure  that  the  cask  was 
empty,  he  took  his  cap  from  a  nail  and  sallied  out 
into  the  street. 

Old  Mrs.  Martin,  a  neighbour,  saw  him  first,  and 
announced  the  fact  with  a  scream  that  brought  a 
dozen  people  round  her.  Bereft  of  speech,  she 
mouthed  dumbly  at  Mr.  Blows. 

"I  ain't  touch — touched  her,"  said  that  gentleman, 
earnestly.  "I  ain't — been  near  'er." 

The  crowd  regarded  him  wild-eyed.  Fresh  mem- 
bers came  running  up,  and  pushing  for  a  front  place 

261 


A  Spirit  of  Avarice 

fell  back  hastily  on  the  main  body  and  watched 
breathlessly.  Mr.  Blows,  disquieted  by  their  silence, 
renewed  his  protestations. 

"I  was  coming  'long " 

He  broke  off  suddenly  and,  turning  round,  gazed 
with  some  heat  at  a  gentleman  who  was  endeavouring 
to  ascertain  whether  an  umbrella  would  pass  through 
him.  The  investigator  backed  hastily  into  the  crowd 
again,  and  a  faint  murmur  of  surprise  arose  as  the 
indignant  Mr.  Blows  rubbed  the  place. 

"He's  alive,  I  tell  you,"  said  a  voice.  "What 
cheer,  Jack!" 

"Ullo,  Bill,"  said  Mr.  Blows,  genially. 

Bill  came  forward  cautiously,  and,  first  shaking 
hands,  satisfied  himself  by  various  little  taps  and 
prods  that  his  friend  was  really  alive. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  shouted;  "come  and  feel." 

At  least  fifty  hands  accepted  the  invitation,  and, 
ignoring  the  threats  and  entreaties  of  Mr.  Blows, 
who  was  a  highly  ticklish  subject,  wandered  briskly 
over  his  anatomy.  He  broke  free  at  last  and,  sup- 
ported by  Bill  and  a  friend,  set  off  for  the  Peal  o' 
Bells. 

By  the  time  he  arrived  there  his  following  had 
swollen  to  immense  proportions.  Windows  were 
thrown  up,  and  people  standing  on  their  doorsteps 
shouted  inquiries.  Congratulations  met  him  on  all 
sides,  and  the  joy  of  Mr.  Joseph  Carter  was  so  great 
that  Mr.  Blows  was  quite  affected. 

262 


A  Spirit  of  Avarice 

In  high  feather  at  the  attention  he  was  receiving, 
Mr.  Blows  pushed  his  way  through  the  idlers  at  the 
door  and  ascended  the  short  flight  of  stairs  which  led 
to  the  room  where  the  members  of  the  Ancient  Order 
of  Camels  were  holding  their  lodge.  The  crowd 
swarmed  up  after  him. 

The  door  was  locked,  but  in  response  to  his  knock- 
ing it  opened  a  couple  of  inches,  and  a  gruff  voice  de- 
manded his  business.  Then,  before  he  could  give  it, 
the  doorkeeper  reeled  back  into  the  room,  and  Mr. 
Blows  with  a  large  following  pushed  his  way  in. 

The  president  and  his  officers,  who  were  sitting  in 
state  behind  a  long  table  at  the  end  of  the  room, 
started  to  their  feet  with  mingled  cries  of  indignation 
and  dismay  at  the  intrusion.  Mr.  Blows,  conscious 
of  the  strength  of  his  position,  walked  up  to  them. 

"Mr.  Blows!"  gasped  the  president. 

"Ah,  you  didn't  expec'  see  me,"  said  Mr.  Blows, 
with  a  scornful  laugh.  "They're  trying  do  me,  do 
me  out  o'  my  lill  bit  o'  money,  Bill." 

"But  you  ain't  got  no  money,"  said  his  bewildered 
friend. 

Mr.  Blows  turned  and  eyed  him  haughtily;  then 
he  confronted  the  staring  president  again. 

"I've  come  for — my  money,"  he  said,  impressively 
— "one  'undereighty  pounds." 

"But  look  'ere,"  said  the  scandalised  Bill,  rugging 
at  his  sleeve;  "you  ain't  dead,  Jack." 

263 


A  Spirit  of  Avarice 

"You  don't  understanV'  said  Mr.  Blows,  impa- 
tiently. "They  know  wharri  mean ;  one  'undereighty 
pounds.  They  want  to  buy  me  a  tombstone,  an'  I 
don't  want  it.  I  want  the  money.  Here,  stop  it! 
Wye  hear?"  The  words  were  wrung  from  him  by 


a  **  Mr.  Blows,  conscious  of  the  strength  of  hk  position,  walked  up  to  them.** 

(he  action  of  the  president,  who,  after  eyeing  him 
doubtfully  during  his  remarks,  suddenly  prodded  him 
with  the  butt-end  of  one  of  the  property  spears  which 
leaned  against  his  chair.  The  solidity  of  Mr.  Blows 
was  unmistakable,  and  with  a  sudden  resumption  of 

264 


A  Spirit  of  Avarice 

dignity  the  official  seated  himself  and  called  for  si- 
lence. 

"I'm  sorry  to  say  there's  been  a  bit  of  a  mistake 
made,"  he  said,  slowly,  "but  I'm  glad  to  say  that  Mr. 
Blows  has  come  back  to  support  his  wife  and  family 
with  the  sweat  of  his  own  brow.  Only  a  pound  or 
two  of  the  money  so  kindly  subscribed  has  been  spent, 
and  the  remainder  will  be  handed  back  to  the  sub- 
scribers." 

"Here,"  said  the  incensed  Mr.  Blows,  "listen  me." 

"Take  him  away,"  said  the  president,  with  great 
dignity.  "Clear  the  room.  Strangers  outside." 

Two  of  the  members  approached  Mr.  Blows  and, 
placing  their  hands  on  his  shoulders,  requested  him  to 
withdraw.  He  went  at  last,  the  centre  of  a  dozen 
panting  men,  and  becoming  wedged  on  the  narrow 
staircase,  spoke  fluently  on  such  widely  differing  sub- 
jects as  the  rights  of  man  and  the  shape  of  the  presi- 
dent's nose. 

He  finished  his  remarks  in  the  street,  but,  becom- 
ing aware  at  last  of  a  strange  lack  of  sympathy  on 
the  part  of  his  audience,  he  shook  off  the  arm  of  the 
faithful  Mr.  Carter  and  stalked  moodily  home. 


265 


THE   THIRD   STRING 


THE    THIRD    STRING 

LOVE  ?  said  the  night-watchman,  as  he  watched 
in  an  abstracted  fashion  the  efforts  of  a  skip- 
per to  reach  a  brother  skipper  on  a  passing 
barge  with  a  boathook.  Don't  talk  to  me  about  love, 
because  I've  suffered  enough  through  it.  There 
ought  to  be  teetotalers  for  love  the  same  as  wot  there 
is  for  drink,  and  they  ought  to  wear  a  piece  o'  ribbon 
to  show  it,  the  same  as  the  teetotalers  do ;  but  not  an 
attractive  piece  o'  ribbon,  mind  you.  I've  seen  as 
much  mischief  caused  by  love  as  by  drink,  and  the 
funny  thing  is,  one  often  leads  to  the  other.  Love, 
arter  it  is  over,  often  leads  to  drink,  and  drink  often 
leads  to  love  and  to  a  man  committing  himself  for 
life  afore  it  is  over. 

Sailormen  give  way  to  it  most;  they  see  so  little 
o'  wimmen  that  they  naturally  'ave  a  high  opinion 
of  'em.  Wait  till  they  become  night-watchmen  and, 
having  to  be  at  'ome  all  day,  see  the  other  side  of  'em. 
If  people  on'y  started  life  as  night-watchmen  there 
wouldn't  be  one  'arf  the  falling  in  love  that  there  is 
now. 

I  remember  one  chap,  as  nice  a  fellow  as  you  could 
269 


The  Third   String 

wish  to  meet,  too.  He  always  carried  his  sweet- 
heart's photograph  about  with  'im,  and  it  was  the 
on'y  thing  that  cheered  'im  up  during  the  fourteen 
years  he  was  cast  away  on  a  deserted  island.  He  was 
picked  up  at  last  and  taken  'ome,  and  there  she  was 
still  single  and  waiting  for  'im;  and  arter  spending 
fourteen  years  on  a  deserted  island  he  got  another 
ten  in  quod  for  shooting  'er  because  she  'ad  altered  so 
much  in  'er  looks. 

Then  there  was  Ginger  Dick,  a  red-'aired  man  I've 
spoken  about  before.  He  went  and  fell  in  love  one 
time  when  he  was  lodging  in  Wapping  'ere  with  old 
Sam  Small  and  Peter  Russet,  and  a  nice  mess  'e  made 
of  it. 

They  was  just  back  from  a  v'y'ge,  and  they  'adn't 
been  ashore  a  week  afore  both  of  'em  noticed  a 
change  for  the  worse  in  Ginger.  He  turned  quiet  and 
peaceful  and  lost  'is  taste  for  beer.  He  used  to  play 
*with  'is  food  instead  of  eating  it,  and  in  place  of 
going  out  of  an  evening  with  Sam  and  Peter  took  to 
going  off  by  'imself. 

"It's  love,"  ses  Peter  Russet,  shaking  his  'ead, 
"and  he'll  be  worse  afore  he's  better." 

"Who's  the  gal?"  ses  old  Sam. 

Peter  didn't  know,  but  when  they  came  'ome  that 
night  'e  asked.  Ginger,  who  was  sitting  up  in  bed 
with  a  far-off  look  in  'is  eyes,  cuddling  'is  knees,  went 
on  staring  but  didn't  answer. 

270 


The  Third   String 

"Who  is  it  making  a  fool  of  you  this  time,  Gin- 
ger?" ses  old  Sam. 

"You  mind  your  bisness  and  I'll  mind  mine,"  ses 
Ginger,  suddenly  waking  up  and  looking  very  fierce. 

"No  offence,  mate,"  ses  Sam,  winking  at  Peter. 
"I  on'y  asked  in  case  I  might  be  able  to  do  you  a 
good  turn." 

"Well,  you  can  do  that  by  not  letting  her  know 
you're  a  pal  o'  mine,"  ses  Ginger,  very  nasty. 

Old  Sam  didn't  understand  at  fust,  and  when  Peter 
explained  to  'im  he  wanted  to  hit  Mm  for  trying  to 
twist  Ginger's  words  about. 

"She  don't  like  fat  old  men,"  ses  Ginger. 

"Ho!"  ses  old  Sam,  who  couldn't  think  of  any- 
thing else  to  say.  "Ho!  don't  she?  Ho!  Ho!  in- 
deed!" 

He  undressed  'imself  and  got  into  the  bed  he 
shared  with  Peter,  and  kept  'im  awake  for  hours  by 
telling  'im  in  a  loud  voice  about  all  the  gals  he'd  made 
love  to  in  his  life,  and  partikler  about  one  gal  that 
always  fainted  dead  away  whenever  she  saw  either  a 
red-'aired  man  or  a  monkey. 

Peter  Russet  found  out  all  about  it  next  day,  and 
told  Sam  that  it  was  a  barmaid  with  black  'air  and 
eyes  at  the  Jolly  Pilots,  and  that  she  wouldn't  'ave 
anything  to  say  to  Ginger. 

He  spoke  to  Ginger  about  it  agin  when  they  were 
going  to  bed  that  night,  and  to  'is  surprise  found  that 

271 


The  Third   String 


he  was  quite  civil.  When  'e  said  that  he  would  do 
anything  he  could  for  'im,  Ginger  was  quite  affected. 

"I  can't  eat  or  drink,"  he  ses,  in  a  miserable  voice; 
"I  lay  awake  all  last  night  thinking  of  her.  She's  so 
diff'rent  to  other  gals;  she's  got —  If  I  start  on  you, 
Sam  Small,  you'll  know  it.  You  go  and  make  that 
choking  noise  to  them  as  likes  it." 

"It's  a  bit  o'  egg-shell  I  got  in  my  throat  at  break- 
fast this  morning,  Ginger,"  ses  Sam.  "I  wonder 
whether  she  lays  awake  all  night  thinking  of  you?" 

"I  dare  say  she  does,"  ses  Peter  Russet,  giving  'im 
a  little  push. 

"Keep  your  'art  up,  Ginger,"  ses  Sam;  "I've 
known  gals  to  'ave  the  most  ext'ordinary  likings  afore 
now." 

"Don't  take  no  notice  of  'im,"  ses  Peter,  holding 
Ginger  back.  "'Ow  are  you  getting  on  with  her?" 

Ginger  groaned  and  sat  down  on  'is  bed  and  looked 
at  the  floor,  and  Sam  went  and  sat  on  his  till  it  shook 
so  that  Ginger  offered  to  step  over  and  break  'is  neck 
for  'im. 

"I  can't  'elp  the  bed  shaking,"  ses  Sam;  "it  ain't 
my  fault.  I  didn't  make  it.  If  being  in  love  is  going 
to  make  you  so  disagreeable  to  your  best  friends, 
Ginger,  you'd  better  go  and  live  by  yourself." 

"I  'card  something  about  her  to-day,  Ginger,"  ses 
Peter  Russet.  "I  met  a  chap  I  used  to  know  at  Bull's 
Wharf,  and  he  told  me  that  she  used  to  keep  com- 

272 


The  Third  String 


pany  with  a  chap  named  Bill  Lumm,  a  bit  of  a  prize- 
fighter, and  since  she  gave  'im  up  she  won't  look  at 
anybody  else." 

"Was  she  very  fond  of  'im,  then?"  asks  Ginger. 

"I  don't  know,"  ses  Peter;  "but  this  chap  told  me 
that  she  won't  walk  out  with  anybody  agin,  unless  it's 
another  prize-fighter.  Her  pride  won't  let  her,  I 
s'pose." 

"Well,  that's  all  right,  Ginger,"  ses  Sam;  "all 
you've  got  to  do  is  to  go  and  be  a  prize-fighter." 

"If  I  'ave  any  more  o'  your  nonsense — "  ses  Gin- 
ger, starting  up. 

"That's  right,"  ses  Sam;  "jump  down  anybody's 
throat  when  they're  trying  to  do  you  a  kindness. 
That's  you  all  over,  Ginger,  that  is.  Wot's  to  pre- 
vent you  telling  'er  that  you're  a  prize-fighter  from 
Australia  or  somewhere?  She  won't  know  no  bet- 
ter." 

He  got  up  off  the  bed  and  put  his  'ands  up  as 
Ginger  walked  across  the  room  to  'im,  but  Ginger 
on'y  wanted  to  shake  'ands,  and  arter  he  'ad  done 
that  'e  patted  'im  on  the  back  and  smiled  at  'im. 

"I'll  try  it,"  he  ses.  "I'd  tell  any  lies  for  'er  sake. 
Ah !  you  don't  know  wot  love  is,  Sam." 

"I  used  to,"  ses  Sam,  and  then  he  sat  down  agin 
and  began  to  tell  'em  all  the  love-affairs  he  could  re- 
member, until  at  last  Peter  Russet  got  tired  and  said 
it  was  'ard  to  believe,  looking  at  'im  now,  wot  a  per- 

273 


The  Third   String 

•fick  terror  he'd  been  with  gals,  and  said  that  the  face 
he'd  got  now  was  a  judgment  on  Mm.  Sam  shut  up 
arter  that,  and  got  into  trouble  with  Peter  in  the 
middle  o'  the  night  by  waking  'im  up  to  tell  'im  some- 
thing that  he  'ad  just  thought  of  about  his  face. 

The  more  Ginger  thought  o'  Sam's  idea  the  more 
he  liked  it,  and  the  very  next  evening  'e  took  Peter 
Russet  into  the  private  bar  o'  the  Jolly  Pilots.  He 
ordered  port  wine,  which  he  thought  seemed  more 
'igh-class  than  beer,  and  then  Peter  Russet  started 
talking  to  Miss  Tucker  and  told  her  that  Ginger  was 
a  prize-fighter  from  Sydney,  where  he'd  beat  every- 
body that  stood  up  to  'im. 

The  gal  seemed  to  change  toward  Ginger  all  in  a 
flash,  and  'er  beautiful  black  eyes  looked  at  'im  so 
admiring  that  he  felt  quite  faint.  She  started  talking 
to  'im  about  his  fights  at  once,  and  when  at  last  'e 
plucked  up  courage  to  ask  'er  to  go  for  a  walk  with 
'im  on  Sunday  arternoon  she  seemed  quite  delighted. 

"It'll  be  a  nice  change  for  me,"  she  ses,  smiling. 
"I  used  to  walk  out  with  a  prize-fighter  once  before, 
and  since  I  gave  'im  up  I  began  to  think  I  was  never 
going  to  'ave  a  young  man  agin.  You  can't  think 
'ow  dull  it's  been." 

"Must  ha'  been,"  ses  Ginger. 

"I  s'pose  you've  got  a  taste  for  prize-fighters, 
miss,"  ses  Peter  Russet. 

"No,"  ses  Miss  Tucker;  "I  don't  think  that  it's 
274 


The  Third   String 

that  exactly,  but,  you  see,  I  couldn't  'ave  anybody 
else.    Not  for  their  own  sakes." 


"  Mi»  Tucker." 
275 


The  Third  String 


"Why  not?"  ses  Ginger,  looking  puzzled. 

"Why  not?"  ses  Miss  Tucker.  "Why,  because  o' 
Bill.  He's  such  a  'orrid  jealous  disposition.  After  I 
gave  'im  up  I  walked  out  with  a  young  fellow  named 
Smith;  fine,  big,  strapping  chap  'e  was,  too,  and  I 
never  saw  such  a  change  in  any  man  as  there  was  in 
'im  after  Bill  'ad  done  with  'im.  I  couldn't  believe 
it  was  'im.  I  told  Bill  he  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
'imself." 

"Wot  did  'e  say?"  asks  Ginger. 

"Don't  ask  me  wot  'e  said,"  ses  Miss  Tucker,  toss- 
ing her  'ead.  "Not  liking  to  be  beat,  I  'ad  one  more 
try  with  a  young  fellow  named  Charlie  Webb." 

"Wot  'appened  to  'im?"  ses  Peter  Russet,  arter 
waiting  a  bit  for  'er  to  finish. 

"I  can't  bear  to  talk  of  it,"  ses  Miss  Tucker,  hold- 
ing up  Ginger's  glass  and  giving  the  counter  a  wipe 
down.  "He  met  Bill,  and  I  saw  'im  six  weeks  after- 
ward just  as  'e  was  being  sent  away  from  the  'ospital 
to  a  seaside  home.  Bill  disappeared  after  that." 

"Has  he  gone  far  away?"  ses  Ginger,  trying  to 
speak  in  a  off-'and  way. 

"Oh,  he's  back  now,"  ses  Miss  Tucker.  "You'll 
see  'im  fast  enough,  and,  wotever  you  do,  don't  let 
'im  know  you're  a  prize-fighter." 

"Why  not?"  ses  pore  Ginger. 

"Because  o'  the  surprise  it'll  be  to  'im,"  ses  Miss 
Tucker.  "Let  'im  rush  on  to  'is  doom.  He'll  get  a 

276 


The  Third   String 

lesson  'e  don't  expect,  the  bully.  Don't  be  afraid  of 
'urting  'im.  Think  o'  pore  Smith  and  Charlie 
Webb." 

"I  am  thinkin'  of  'em,"  ses  Ginger,  slow-like.  "Is 
— is  Bill — very  quick — with  his  'ands?" 

"Rather^  ses  Miss  Tucker;  "but  o'  course  he  ain't 
up  to  your  mark;  he's  on'y  known  in  these  parts." 

She  went  off  to  serve  a  customer,  and  Ginger  Dick 
tried  to  catch  Peter's  eye,  but  couldn't,  and  when 
Miss  Tucker  came  back  he  said  'e  must  be  going. 

"Sunday  afternoon  at  a  quarter  past  three  sharp, 
outside  'ere,"  she  ses.  "Never  mind  about  putting  on 
your  best  clothes,  because  Bill  is  sure  to  be  hanging 
about.  I'll  take  care  o'  that." 

She  reached  over  the  bar  and  shook  'ands  with  'im, 
and  Ginger  felt  a  thrill  go  up  'is  arm  which  lasted 
'im  all  the  way  'ome. 

He  didn't  know  whether  to  turn  up  on  Sunday  or 
not,  and  if  it  'adn't  ha'  been  for  Sam  and  Peter  Rus- 
set he'd  ha'  most  likely  stayed  at  home.  Not  that  'e 
was  a  coward,  being  always  ready  for  a  scrap  and 
gin'rally  speaking  doing  well  at  it,  but  he  made  a 
few  inquiries  about  Bill  Lumm  and  'e  saw  that  'e  had 
about  as  much  chance  with  'im  as  a  kitten  would  'ave 
with  a  bulldog. 

Sam  and  Peter  was  delighted,  and  they  talked 
about  it  as  if  it  was  a  pantermime,  and  old  Sam  said 
that  when  he  was  a  young  man  he'd  ha'  fought  six 

277 


The  Third   String 


Bill  Lumms  afore  he'd  ha'  given  a  gal  up.  He 
brushed  Ginger's  clothes  for  'im  with  'is  own  hands 
on  Sunday  arternoon,  and,  when  Ginger  started,  'im 
and  Peter  follered  some  distance  behind  to  sec  fair 
play. 

The  on'y  person  outside  the  Jolly  Pilots  when  Gin- 
ger got  there  was  a  man;  a  strong-built  chap  with  a 
thick  neck,  very  large  'ands,  and  a  nose  which  'ad 
seen  its  best  days  some  time  afore.  He  looked  'ard 
at  Ginger  as  'e  came  up,  and  then  stuck  his  'ands  in 
'is  trouser  pockets  and  spat  on  the  pavement.  Ginger 
walked  a  little  way  past  and  then  back  agin,  and  just 
as  he  was  thinking  that  'e  might  venture  to  go  off, 
as  Miss  Tucker  'adn't  come,  the  door  opened  and 
out  she  came. 

"I  couldn't  find  my  'at-pins,"  she  ses,  taking  Gin- 
ger's arm  and  smiling  up  into  'is  face. 

Before  Ginger  could  say  anything  the  man  he  'ad 
noticed  took  his  'ands  out  of  'is  pockets  and  stepped 
up  to  'im. 

"Let  go  o'  that  young  lady's  arm,"  he  ses. 

"Sha'n't,"  ses  Ginger,  holding  it  so  tight  that  Miss 
Tucker  nearly  screamed. 

"Let  go  'er  arm  and  put  your  'ands  up,"  ses  the 
chap  agin. 

"Not  'ere,"  ses  Ginger,  who  'ad  laid  awake  the 
night  afore  thinking  wot  to  do  if  he  met  Bill  Lumm. 
"If  you  wish  to  'ave  a  spar  with  me,  my  lad,  you 

278 


The  Third   String 

must  'ave  it  where  we  can't  be  interrupted.     When 
I  start  on  a  man  I  like  to  make  a  good  job  of  it," 


"  '  Let  go  o*  that  young  lady's  arm,*  he  ses." 

"Good  job  of  it!"  ses  the  other,  starting.  "Do 
you  know  who  I  am?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  ses  Ginger,  "and,  wot's  more,  I 
don't  care." 


The  Third  String 

"My  name,"  ses  the  chap,  speaking  in  a  slow,  care- 
ful voice,  "is  Bill  Lumm." 

"Wot  a  'orrid  name!"  ses  Ginger. 

"Otherwise  known  as  the  Wapping  Basher,"  ses 
Bill,  shoving  'is  face  into  Ginger's  and  glaring  at  'im. 

"Ho !"  ses  Ginger,  sniffing,  "a  amatoor." 

"Amatoor?"  ses  Bill,  shouting. 

"That's  wot  we  should  call  you  over  in  Australia," 
ses  Ginger;  "my  name  is  Dick  Duster,  likewise  known 
as  the  Sydney  Puncher.  I've  killed  three  men  in  the 
ring  and  'ave  never  'ad  a  defeat." 

"Well,  put  'em  up,"  ses  Bill,  doubling  up  'is  fists 
and  shaping  at  'im. 

"Not  in  the  street,  I  tell  you,"  ses  Ginger,  still 
clinging  tight  to  Miss  Tucker's  arm.  "I  was  fined  five 
pounds  the  other  day  for  punching  a  man  in  the 
street,  and  the  magistrate  said  it  would  be  'ard 
labour  for  me  next  time.  You  find  a  nice,  quiet  spot 
for  some  arternoon,  and  I'll  knock  your  'ead  off  with 
pleasure." 

"I'd  sooner  'ave  it  knocked  off  now,"  ses  Bill;  "I 
don't  like  waiting  for  things." 

"Thursday  arternoon,"  ses  Ginger,  very  firm; 
"there's  one  or  two  gentlemen  want  to  see  a  bit  o* 
my  work  afore  backing  me,  and  we  can  combine  bis- 
ness  with  pleasure." 

He  walked  off  with  Miss  Tucker,  leaving  Bill 
Lumm  standing  on  the  pavement  scratching  his  'ead 

280 


The  Third   String 

and  staring  arter  'im  as  though  'e  didn't  quite  know 
wot  to  make  of  it.  Bill  stood  there  for  pretty  near 
five  minutes,  and  then  arter  asking  Sam  and  Peter, 
who  'ad  been  standing  by  listening,  whether  they 
wanted  anything  for  themselves,  walked  off  to  ask 
'is  pals  wot  they  knew  about  the  Sydney  Puncher. 

Ginger  Dick  was  so  quiet  and  satisfied  about  the 
fight  that  old  Sam  and  Peter  couldn't  make  'im  out  at 
all.  He  wouldn't  even  practise  punching  at  a  bolster 
that  Peter  rigged  up  for  'im,  and  when  'e  got  a  mes- 
sage from  Bill  Lumm  naming  a  quiet  place  on  the 
Lea  Marshes  he  agreed  to  it  as  comfortable  as  pos- 
sible. 

"Well,  I  must  say,  Ginger,  that  I  like  your  pluck,'* 
ses  Peter  Russet. 

"I  always  'ave  said  that  for  Ginger;  Vs  got 
pluck,"  ses  Sam. 

Ginger  coughed  and  tried  to  smile  at  'em  in  a 
superior  sort  o'  way.  "I  thought  you'd  got  more 
sense,"  he  ses,  at  last.  "You  don't  think  I'm  going, 
do  you  ?" 

"/F<?/.?"  ses  old  Sam,  in  a  shocked  voice. 

"You're  never  going  to  back  out  of  it,  Ginger?'* 
ses  Peter. 

"I  am,"  ses  Ginger.  "If  you  think  I'm  going  to 
be  smashed  up  by  a  prize-fighter  just  to  show  my 
pluck  you're  mistook." 

"You  must  go,  Ginger,"  ses  old  Sam,  very  severe, 
281 


The  Third   String 


"It's  too  late  to  back  out  of  it  now.  Think  of  the 
gal.  Think  of  'er  feelings." 

"For  the  sake  of  your  good  name,"  ses  Peter. 

"I  should  never  speak  to  you  agin,  Ginger,"  ses 
old  Sam,  pursing  up  'is  lips. 

"Nor  me  neither,"  ses  Peter  Russet. 

"To  think  of  our  Ginger  being  called  a  coward," 
ses  old  Sam,  with  a  shudder,  "and  afore  a  gal,  too." 

"The  loveliest  gal  in  Wapping,"  ses  Peter. 

"Look  'ere,"  ses  Ginger,  "you  can  shut  up,  both  of 
you.  I'm  not  going,  and  that's  the  long  and  short  of 
it.  I  don't  mind  an  ordinary  man,  but  I  draw  the 
line  at  prize-fighters." 

Old  Sam  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  'is  bed  and 
looked  the  picture  of  despair.  "You  must  go,  Gin- 
ger," he  ses,  "for  my  sake." 

"Your  sake?"  ses  Ginger,  staring. 

"I've  got  money  on  it,"  ses  Sam,  "so's  Peter.  If 
you  don't  turn  up  all  bets'll  be  off." 

"Good  job  for  you,  too,"  ses  Ginger.  "If  I  did 
turn  up  you'd  lose  it,  to  a  dead  certainty." 

Old  Sam  coughed  and  looked  at  Peter,  and  Peter 
*e  coughed  and  looked  at  Sam. 

"You  don't  understand,  Ginger,"  said  Sam,  in  a 
soft  voice;  "it  ain't  often  a  chap  gets  the  chance  o' 
making  a  bit  o'  money  these  'ard  times." 

"So  we've  put  all  our  money  on  Bill  Lumm,"  ses 
Peter.  "It's  the  safest  and  easiest  way  o'  making 

282 


The  Third   String 


money  I  ever  'card  of.  You  see,  we  know  you're  not 
a  prize-fighter  and  the  others  don't." 

Pore  Ginger  looked  at  'em,  and  then  'e  called  'em 
all  the  names  he  could  lay  'is  tongue  to,  but,  with  the 
idea  o'  the  money  they  was  going  make,  they  didn't 
mind  a  bit.  They  let  him  'ave  'is  say,  and  that  night 
they  brought  'ome  two  other  sailormen  wot  'ad  bet 
agin  Ginger  to  share  their  room,  and,  though  they 
'ad  bet  agin  'im,  they  was  so  fond  of  'im  that  it  was 
evident  that  they  wasn't  going  to  leave  'im  till  the 
fight  was  over. 

Ginger  gave  up  then,  and  at  twelve  o'clock  next 
day  they  started  off  to  find  the  place.  Mr.  Webson, 
the  landlord  of  the  Jolly  Pilots,  a  short,  fat  man  o' 
fifty,  wot  'ad  spoke  to  Ginger  once  or  twice,  went 
with  'em,  and  all  the  way  to  the  station  he  kept  say- 
ing wot  a  jolly  spot  it  was  for  that  sort  o'  thing.  Per- 
fickly  private;  nice  soft  green  grass  to  be  knocked 
down  on,  and  larks  up  in  the  air  singing  away  as  if 
they'd  never  leave  off. 

They  took  the  train  to  Homerton,  and,  being  a 
slack  time  o'  the  day,  the  porters  was  surprised  to  see 
wot  a  lot  o'  people  was  travelling  by  it.  So  was  Gin- 
ger. There  was  the  landlords  of  'arf  the  public- 
'ouses  in  Wapping,  all  smoking  big  cigars;  two  dock 
policemen  in  plain  clothes,  wot  'ad  got  the  arternoon 
off — one  with  a  raging  toothache  and  the  other  with 
a  baby  wot  wasn't  expected  to  last  the  day  out.  They 

283 


The  Third   String 


was  as  full  o'  fun  as  kittens,  and  the  landlord  o'  the 
Jolly  Pilots  pointed  out  to  Ginger  wot  reasonable 
'uman  beings  policemen  was  at  'art.  Besides  them 
there  was  quite  a  lot  o'  sailormen,  even  skippers  and 
mates,  nearly  all  of  'em  smoking  big  cigars,  too,  and 
looking  at  Ginger  out  of  the  corner  of  one  eye  and 
at  the  Wapping  Basher  out  of  the  corner  of  the 
other. 

"Hit  'ard  and  hit  straight,"  ses  the  landlord  to 
Ginger  in  a  low  voice,  as  they  got  out  of  the  train 
and  walked  up  the  road.  "'Ow  are  you  feeling?" 

"I've  got  a  cold  coming  on,"  ses  pore  Ginger, 
looking  at  the  Basher,  who  was  on  in  front,  "and  a 
splitting  'eadache,  and  a  sharp  pain  all  down  my  left 
leg.  I  don't  think " 

"Well,  it's  a  good  job  it's  no  worse,"  ses  the  land- 
lord; "all  you've  got  to  do  is  to  hit  'ard.  If  you  win 
it's  a  'undered  pounds  in  my  pocket,  and  I'll  stand 
you  a  fiver  of  it.  D'ye  understand?" 

They  turned  down  some  little  streets,  several  of 
'em  going  diff'rent  ways,  and  arter  crossing  the  River 
Lea  got  on  to  the  marshes,  and,  as  the  landlord  said, 
the  place  might  ha'  been  made  for  it. 

A  little  chap  from  Mile  End  was  the  referee,  and 
Bill  Lumm,  'aving  peeled,  stood  looking  on  while 
Ginger  took  'is  things  off  and  slowly  and  carefully 
folded  'em  up.  Then  they  stepped  toward  each 
other,  Bill  taking  longer  steps  than  Ginger,  and 

284 


The  Third  String 

shook  'ands;  immediately  arter  which  Bill  knocked 
Ginger  head  over  'eels. 

"Time !"  was  called,  and  the  landlord  o'  the  Jolly 
Pilots,  who  was  nursing  Ginger  on  'is  knee,  said  that 


"  Bill  Lumm,  'aving  peeled,  stood  looking  on  while  Ginger  took  'is  things  off.** 

it  was  nothing  at  all,  and  that  bleeding  at  the  nose 
was  a  sign  of  'ealth.  But  as  it  happened  Ginger  was 
that  mad  'e  didn't  want  any  encouragement,  he  on'y 
wanted  to  kill  Bill  Lumm. 

He  got  two  or  three  taps  in  the  next  round  which 

285 


The  Third   String 

made  his  'ead  ring,  and  then  he  got  'ome  on  the  mark 
and  follered  it  up  by  a  left-'anded  punch  on  Bill's 
jaw  that  surprised  'em  both — Bill  because  he  didn't 
think  Ginger  could  hit  so  'ard,  and  Ginger  because  'e 
didn't  think  that  prize-fighters  'ad  any  feelings. 

They  clinched  and  fell  that  round,  and  the  land- 
lord patted  Ginger  on  the  back  and  said  that  if  he 
ever  'ad  a  son  he  'oped  he'd  grow  up  like  'im. 

Ginger  was  surprised  at  the  way  'e  was  getting  on, 
and  so  was  old  Sam  and  Peter  Russet,  and  when 
Ginger  knocked  Bill  down  in  the  sixth  round  Sam 
went  as  pale  as  death.  Ginger  was  getting  marked 
all  over,  but  he  stuck  to  'is  man,  and  the  two  dock 
policemen,  wot  'ad  put  thier  money  on  Bill  Lumm, 
began  to  talk  of  their  dooty,  and  say  as  'ow  the  fight 
ought  to  be  stopped. 

At  the  tenth  round  Bill  couldn't  see  out  of  'is  eyes, 
and  kept  wasting  'is  strength  on  the  empty  air,  and 
once  on  the  referee.  Ginger  watched  'is  opportunity, 
and  at  last,  with  a  terrific  smash  on  the  point  o'  Bill's 
jaw,  knocked  'im  down  and  then  looked  round  for 
the  landlord's  knee. 

Bill  made  a  game  try  to  get  up  when  "Time!"  was 
called,  but  couldn't;  and  the  referee,  who  was  'olding 
a  'andkerchief  to  'is  nose,  gave  the  fight  to  Ginger. 

It  was  the  proudest  moment  o*  Ginger  Dick's  life. 
He  sat  there  like  a  king,  smiling  'orribly,  and  Sam's 
voice  as  he  paid  'is  losings  sounded  to  'im  like  music, 

286 


The  Third  String 


in  spite  o'  the  words  the  old  man  see  fit  to  use.  It 
was  so  'ard  to  get  Peter  Russet's  money  that  it  a'most 
looked  as  though  there  was  going  to  be  another  prize- 
fight, but  'e  paid  up  at  last  and  went  off,  arter  fust 
telling  Ginger  part  of  wot  he  thought  of  'im. 

There  was  a  lot  o'  quarrelling,  but  the  bets  was  all 
settled  at  last,  and  the  landlord  o'  the  Jolly  Pilots, 
who  was  in  'igh  feather  with  the  money  he'd  won, 
gave  Ginger  the  five  pounds  he'd  promised  and  took 
him  'ome  in  a  cab. 

"You  done  well,  my  lad,"  he  ses.  "No,  don't 
smile.  It  looks  as  though  your  'ead's  coming  off." 

"I  'ope  you'll  tell  Miss  Tucker  'ow  I  fought,"  ses 
Ginger. 

"I  will,  my  lad,"  ses  the  landlord;  "but  you'd  bet- 
ter not  see  'er  for  some  time,  for  both  your  sakes." 

"I  was  thinking  of  'aving  a  day  or  two  in  bed,'* 
ses  Ginger. 

"Best  thing  you  can  do,"  ses  the  landlord;  "and 
mind,  don't  you  ever  fight  Bill  Lumm  agin.  Keep 
out  of  'is  way." 

"Why?  I  beat  'im  once,  an'  I  can  beat  'im  agin," 
ses  Ginger,  offended. 

"Beat  *im?"  ses  the  landlord.  He  took  'is  cigar 
out  of  'is  mouth  as  though  'e  was  going  to  speak,  and 
then  put  it  back  agin  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"Yes,  beat  'im,"  ses  Ginger.  "You  was  there  and 
saw  it." 

287 


The  Third  String 

"He  lost  the  fight  a-purpose,"  ses  the  landlord, 
whispering.  "Miss  Tucker  found  out  that  you 
wasn't  a  prize-fighter — leastways,  I  did  for  'er — and 
she  told  Bill  that,  if  'e  loved  'er  so  much  that  he'd 
'ave  'is  sinful  pride  took  down  by  letting  you  beat 
'im,  she'd  think  diff'rent  of  'im.  Why,  'e  could  'ave 
settled  you  in  a  minute  if  he'd  liked.  He  was  on'y 
playing  with  you." 

Ginger  stared  at  'im  as  if  'e  couldn't  believe  'is 
eyes.  "Playing?"  he  ses,  feeling  'is  face  very  gently 
with  the  tips  of  his  fingers. 

"Yes,"  ses  the  landlord;  "and  if  he  ever  hits  you 
agin  you'll  know  I'm  speaking  the  truth." 

Ginger  sat  back  all  of  a  heap  and  tried  to  think. 
"Is  Miss  Tucker  going  to  keep  company  with  'im 
agin,  then  ?"  he  ses,  in  a  faint  voice. 

"No,"  ses  the  landlord;  "you  can  make  your  mind 
easy  on  that  point." 

"Well,  then,  if  I  walk  out  with  'er  I  shall  'ave  to 
fight  Bill  all  over  agin,"  ses  Ginger. 

The  landlord  turned  to  'im  and  patted  'im  on  the 
shoulder.  "Don't  you  take  up  your  troubles  afore 
they  come,  my  lad,"  he  ses,  kindly;  "and  mind  and 
keep  wot  I've  told  you  dark,  for  all  our  sakes." 

He  put  'im  down  at  the  door  of  'is  lodgings  and, 
arter  shaking  'ands  with  'im,  gave  the  landlady  a  shil- 
ling and  told  'er  to  get  some  beefsteak  and  put  on  'is 
face,  and  went  home.  Ginger  went  straight  off  to 

288 


The  Third   String 


bed,  and  the  way  he  carried  on  when  the  landlady 
fried  the  steak  afore  bringing  it  up  showed  'ow  upset 
he  was. 


•*  The  way  he  carried  on  when  the  landlady  fried  the  steak  showed 
upset  he  was." 

289 


The  Third  String 


It  was  over  a  week  afore  he  felt  'e  could  risk  let- 
ting Miss  Tucker  see  'im,  and  then  at  seven  o'clock 
one  evening  he  felt  'e  couldn't  wait  any  longer,  and 
arter  spending  an  hour  cleaning  'imself  he  started 
out  for  the  Jolly  Pilots. 

He  felt  so  'appy  at  the  idea  o'  seeing  her  agin  that 
'e  forgot  all  about  Bill  Lumm,  and  it  gave  'im  quite 
a  shock  when  'e  saw  'im  standing  outside  the  Pilots. 
Bill  took  his  'ands  out  of  'is  pockets  when  he  saw  'im 
and  came  toward  'im. 

"It's  no  good  to-night,  mate,"  he  ses;  and  to  Gin- 
ger's great  surprise  shook  'ands  with  'im. 

"No  good?"  ses  Ginger,  staring. 

"No,"  ses  Bill;  "he's  in  the  little  back-parlour,  like 
a  whelk  in  'is  shell;  but  we'll  'ave  'im  sooner  or 
later." 

"Him?  Who?"  ses  Ginger,  more  puzzled  than 
ever. 

"Who?"  ses  Bill;  "why,  Webson,  the  landlord. 
You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  you  ain't  heard  about  it?" 

"Heard  wot?"  ses  Ginger.  "I  haven't  'card  any- 
thing. I've  been  indoors  with  a  bad  cold  all  the 
week." 

"Webson  and  Julia  Tucker  was  married  at  eleven 
o'clock  yesterday  morning,"  ses  Bill  Lumm,  in  a 
hoarse  voice.  "When  I  think  of  the  way  I've  been 
done,  and  wot  I've  suffered,  I  feel  'arf  crazy.  He 
won  a  'undered  pounds  through  me,  and  then  got  the 

290 


The  Third   String 

gal  I  let  myself  be  disgraced  for.    I  'ad  an  idea  some 
time  ago  that  he'd  got  'is  eye  on  her." 

Ginger  Dick  didn't  answer  'im  a  word.  He  stag- 
gered back  and  braced  'imself  up  agin  the  wall  for  a 
bit,  and  arter  staring  at  Bill  Lumm  in  a  wild  way  for 
pretty  near  three  minutes  he  crawled  back  to  'is  lodg- 
ings and  went  straight  to  bed  agin. 


ODD   CHARGES 


ODD    CHARGES 

SEATED  at  his  ease  in  the  warm  tap-room  of  the 
Cauliflower,  the  stranger  had  been  eating  and 
drinking  for  some  time,  apparently  unconscious 
of  the  presence  of  the  withered  ancient  who,  huddled 
up  in  that  corner  of  the  settle  which  was  nearer  to 
the  fire,  fidgeted  restlessly  with  an  empty  mug  and 
blew  with  pathetic  insistence  through  a  churchwar- 
den pipe  which  had  long  been  cold.  The  stranger 
finished  his  meal  with  a  sigh  of  content  and  then,  ris- 
ing from  his  chair,  crossed  over  to  the  settle  and, 
placing  his  mug  on  the  time-worn  table  before  him, 
began  to  fill  his  pipe. 

The  old  man  took  a  spill  from  the  table  and,  hold- 
ing it  with  trembling  fingers  to  the  blaze,  gave  him  a 
light.  The  other  thanked  him,  and  then,  leaning 
back  in  his  corner  of  the  settle,  watched  the  smoke 
of  his  pipe  through  half-closed  eyes,  and  assented 
drowsily  to  the  old  man's  remarks  upon  the  weather. 
"Bad  time  o'  the  year  for  going  about,"  said  the 
latter,  "though  I  s'pose  if  you  can  eat  and  drink  as 
much  as  you  want  it  don't  matter.  I  s'pose  you 
mightn't  be  a  conjurer  from  London,  sir?" 

295 


Odd   Charges 


The  traveller  shook  his  head. 

"I  was  'oping  you  might  be,"  said  the  old  man. 

The  other  manifested  no  curiosity. 

"If  you  'ad  been,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  sigh, 
"I  should  ha'  asked  you  to  ha'  done  something  use- 
ful. Gin'rally  speaking,  conjurers  do  things  that  are 
no  use  to  anyone;  wot  I  should  like  to  see  a  conjurer 
do  would  be  to  make  this  'ere  empty  mug  full  o'  beer 
and  this  empty  pipe  full  o'  shag  tobacco.  That's  wot 
I  should  ha'  made  bold  to  ask  you  to  do  if  you'd  been 
one." 

The  traveller  sighed,  and,  taking  his  short  briar 
pipe  from  his  mouth  by  the  bowl,  rapped  three  times 
upon  the  table  with  it.  In  a  very  short  time  a  mug 
of  ale  and  a  paper  cylinder  of  shag  appeared  on  the 
table  before  the  old  man. 

"Wot  put  me  in  mind  o'  your  being  a  conjurer," 
said  the  latter,  filling  his  pipe  after  a  satisfying 
draught  from  the  mug,  "is  that  you're  uncommon 
like  one  that  come  to  Claybury  some  time  back  and 
give  a  performance  in  this  very  room  where  we're 
now  a-sitting.  So  far  as  looks  go,  you  might  be  his 
brother." 

The  traveller  said  that  he  never  had  a  brother. 

We  didn't  know  'e  was  a  conjurer  at  fust,  said 
the  old  man.  He  'ad  come  down  for  Wickham 
Fair  and,  being  a  day  or  two  before'and,  'e  was  going 
to  different  villages  round  about  to  give  perform- 

296 


Odd  Charges 

ances.  He  came  into  the  bar  'ere  and  ordered  a  mug 
o'  beer,  and  while  'e  was  a-drinking  of  it  stood  talk- 
ing about  the  weather.  Then  'e  asked  Bill  Chambers 


"  Putting  his  'and  to  Bill's  mug,  he  took  out  a  live  frog." 


to  excuse  Mm  for  taking  the  liberty,  and,  putting  riis 
'and  to  Bill's  mug,  took  out  a  live  frog.  Bill  was 
a  very  partikler  man  about  wot  'e  drunk,  and  I 

297 


Odd   Charges 

thought  he'd  ha'  had  a  fit.  He  went  on  at  Smith, 
the  landlord,  something  shocking,  and  at  last,  for  the 
sake  o'  peace  and  quietness,  Smith  gave  'im  another 
pint  to  make  up  for  it. 

"It  must  ha'  been  asleep  in  the  mug,"  he  ses. 

Bill  said  that  'e  thought  'e  knew  who  must  ha'  been 
asleep,  and  was  just  going  to  take  a  drink,  when  the 
conjurer  asked  Mm  to  excuse  'im  agin.  Bill  put  down 
the  mug  in  a  'urry,  and  the  conjurer  put  his  'and  to 
the  mug  and  took  out  a  dead  mouse.  It  would  ha' 
been  a  'ard  thing  to  say  which  was  the  most  upset, 
Bill  Chambers  or  Smith,  the  landlord,  and  Bill,  who 
was  in  a  terrible  state,  asked  why  it  was  everything 
seemed  to  get  into  his  mug. 

"P'r'aps  you're  fond  o'  dumb  animals,  sir,"  ses  the 
conjurer.  "Do  you  'appen  to  notice  your  coat-pocket 
is  all  of  a  wriggle?" 

He  put  his  'and  to  Bill's  pocket  and  took  out  a 
little  green  snake;  then  he  put  his  'and  to  Bill's  trou- 
ser-pocket  and  took  out  a  frog,  while  pore  Bill's  eyes 
looked  as  if  they  was  coming  out  o'  their  sockets. 

"Keep  still,"  ses  the  conjurer;  "there's  a  lot  more 
to  come  yet." 

Bill  Chambers  gave  a  'owl  that  was  dreadful  to 
listen  to,  and  then  'e  pushed  the  conjurer  away  and 
started  undressing  'imself  as  fast  as  he  could  move  'is 
fingers.  I  believe  he'd  ha'  taken  off  'is  shirt  if  it  'ad 
'ad  pockets  in  it,  and  then  'e  stuck  'is  feet  close  to- 

298 


Odd   Charges 


gether  and  'e  kept  jumping  into  the  air,  and  coming 
down  on  to  'is  own  clothes  in  his  hobnailed  boots. 

"He  aint  fond  o'  dumb  animals,  then,"  ses  the 
conjurer.  Then  he  put  his  'and  on  his  'art  and 
bowed. 

"Gentlemen  all,"  he  ses.  '"Aving  given  you  this 
specimen  of  wot  I  can  do,  I  beg  to  give  notice  that 
with  the  landlord's  kind  permission  I  shall  give  my 
celebrated  conjuring  entertainment  in  the  tap-room 
this  evening  at  seven  o'clock;  ad — mission,  three- 
pence each." 

They  didn't  understand  Mm  at  fust,  but  at  last  they 
see  wot  'e  meant,  and  arter  explaining  to  Bill,  who 
was  still  giving  little  jumps,  they  led  Mm  up  into  a 
corner  and  coaxed  'im  into  dressing  'imself  agin.  He 
wanted  to  fight  the  conjurer,  but  'e  was  that  tired  'e 
could  scarcely  stand,  and  by-and-by  Smith,  who  'ad 
said  'e  wouldn't  'ave  anything  to  do  with  it,  gave  way 
and  said  he'd  risk  it. 

The  tap-room  was  crowded  that  night,  but  we  all 
'ad  to  pay  threepence  each — coining  money,  I  call  it. 
Some  o'  the  things  wot  he  done  was  very  clever,  but 
a'most  from  the  fust  start-off  there  was  unpleasant- 
ness. When  he  asked  somebody  to  lend  'im  a  pocket- 
'andkercher  to  turn  into  a  white  rabbit,  Henery 
Walker  rushed  up  and  lent  'im  'is,  but  instead  of  a 
white  rabbit  it  turned  into  a  black  one  with  two  white 
spots  on  it,  and  arter  Henery  Walker  'ad  sat  for  some 

299 


Odd  Charges 


time  puzzling  over  it  'e  got  up  and  went  off  'ome 
without  saying  good-night  to  a  soul. 

Then  the  conjurer  borrowed  Sam  Jones's  hat,  and 
arter  looking  into  it  for  some  time  'e  was  that  sur- 
prised and  astonished  that  Sam  Jones  lost  'is  temper 
and  asked  'im  whether  he  'adn't  seen  a  hat  afore. 

"Not  like  this,"  ses  the  conjurer.  And  'e  pulled 
out  a  woman's  dress  and  jacket  and  a  pair  o'  boots. 
Then  'e  took  out  a  pound  or  two  o'  taters  and  some 
crusts  o'  bread  and  other  things,  and  at  last  'e  gave 
it  back  to  Sam  Jones  and  shook  'is  head  at  'im,  and 
told  'im  if  he  wasn't  very  careful  he'd  spoil  the  shape 
of  it. 

Then  'e  asked  somebody  to  lend  'im  a  watch,  and, 
arter  he  'ad  promised  to  take  the  greatest  care  of  it, 
Dicky  Weed,  the  tailor,  lent  'im  a  gold  watch  wot 
'ad  been  left  'im  by  'is  great-aunt  when  she  died. 
Dicky  Weed  thought  a  great  deal  o'  that  watch,  and 
when  the  conjurer  took  a  flat-iron  and  began  to  smash 
it  up  into  little  bits  it  took  three  men  to  hold  'im  down 
in  'is  seat. 

"This  is  the  most  difficult  trick  o'  the  lot,"  ses 
the  conjurer,  picking  off  a  wheel  wot  'ad  stuck  to 
the  flat-iron.  "Sometimes  I  can  do  it  and  sometimes 
I  can't.  Last  time  I  tried  it  it  was  a  failure,  and  it 
cost  me  eighteenpence  and  a  pint  o'  beer  afore  the 
gentleman  the  watch  'ad  belonged  to  was  satisfied. 
I  gave  'im  the  bits,  too." 

300 


Odd  Charges 

"If  you  don't  give  me  my  watch  back  safe  and 
sound,"  ses  Dicky  Weed,  in  a  trembling  voice,  "it'll 
cost  you  twenty  pounds." 

"'Ow  much?"  ses  the  conjurer,  with  a  start. 
"Well,  I  wish  you'd  told  me  that  afore  you  lent  it  to 
me.  Eighteenpence  is  my  price." 

He  stirred  the  broken  bits  up  with  'is  finger  and 
shook  his  'ead. 

"I've  never  tried  one  o'  these  old-fashioned 
watches  afore,"  he  ses.  "'Owever,  if  I  fail,  gentle- 
men, it'll  be  the  fust  and  only  trick  I've  failed  in  to- 
night. You  can't  expect  everything  to  turn  out  right> 
but  if  I  do  fail  this  time,  gentlemen,  I'll  try  it  agin, 
if  anybody  else'll  lend  me  another  watch." 

Dicky  Weed  tried  to  speak  but  couldn't,  and  'e  sat 
there,  with  'is  face  pale,  staring  at  the  pieces  of  'is 
watch  on  the  conjurer's  table.  Then  the  conjurer 
took  a  big  pistol  with  a  trumpet-shaped  barrel  out  of 
'is  box,  and  arter  putting  in  a  charge  o'  powder 
picked  up  the  pieces  o'  watch  and  rammed  them  in 
arter  it.  We  could  hear  the  broken  bits  grating  agin 
the  ramrod,  and  arter  he  'ad  loaded  it  'e  walked 
round  and  handed  it  to  us  to  look  at. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  ses  to  Dicky  Weed;  "it's  going 
to  be  a  success;  I  could  tell  in  the  loading." 

He  walked  back  to  the  other  end  of  the  room  and 
held  up  the  pistol. 

"I  shall  now  fire  this  pistol,"  'e  ses,  "and  in  so 
301 


Odd   Charges 


doing  mend  the  watch.  The  explosion  of  the  powder 
makes  the  bits  o'  glass  join  together  agin;  in  flying 
through  the  air  the  wheels  go  round  and  round  col- 
lecting all  the  other  parts,  and  the  watch  as  good  as 
new  and  ticking  away  its  'ardest  will  be  found  in  the 
coat-pocket  o'  the  gentleman  I  shoot  at." 

He  pointed  the  pistol  fust  at  one  and  then  at 
another,  as  if  'e  couldn't  make  up  'is  mind,  and  none 
of  'em  seemed  to  'ave  much  liking  for  it.  Peter  Gub- 
bins  told  'im  not  to  shoot  at  'im  because  he  'ad  a  'ole 
in  his  pocket,  and  Bill  Chambers,  when  it  pointed  at 
'im,  up  and  told  'im  to  let  somebody  else  'ave  a  turn. 
The  only  one  that  didn't  flinch  was  Bob  Pretty,  the 
biggest  poacher  and  the  greatest  rascal  in  Claybury. 
He'd  been  making  fun  o'  the  tricks  all  along,  saying 
out  loud  that  he'd  seen  'em  all  afore — and  done  bet- 
ter. 

"Go  on,"  he  ses;  "I  ain't  afraid  of  you;  you  can't 
shoot  straight." 

The  conjurer  pointed  the  pistol  at  'irn.  Then  'e 
pulled  the  trigger  and  the  pistol  went  off  bang,  and 
the  same  moment  o'  time  Bob  Pretty  jumped  up  with 
a  'orrible  scream,  and  holding  his  'ands  over  'is  eyes 
danced  about  as  though  he'd  gone  mad. 

Everybody  started  up  at  once  and  got  round  'im, 
and  asked  'im  wot  was  the  matter;  but  Bob  didn't 
answer  Vm.  He  kept  on  making  a  dreadful  noise, 
and  at  last  'e  broke  out  of  the  room  apd,  holding  'is 

302 


Odd  Charges 


'andkercher  to  'is  face,  'ran  off  'ome  as  'ard  as  he 
could  run. 

"You've  done  it  now,  mate,"  ses  Bill  Chambers  to 
the  conjurer.  "I  thought  you  wouldn't  be  satisfied 
till  you'd  done  some  'arm.  You've  been  and  blinded 
pore  Bob  Pretty." 

"Nonsense,"  ses  the  conjurer.  "He's  frightened, 
that's  all." 

"Frightened!"  ses  Peter  Gubbins.  "Why,  you 
fired  Dicky  Weed's  watch  straight  into  'is  face." 

"Rubbish,"  ses  the  conjurer;  "it  dropped  into  'is 
pocket,  and  he'll  find  it  there  when  'e  comes  to  'is 
senses." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  Bob  Pretty  'as  gone 
off  with  my  watch  in  'is  pocket?"  screams  Dicky 
Weed. 

"I  do,"  ses  the  other. 

"You'd  better  get  'old  of  Bob  afore  'e  finds  it  out 
Dicky,"  ses  Bill  Chambers. 

Dicky  Weed  didn't  answer  'im;  he  was  alreadj 
running  along  to  Bob  Pretty's  as  fast  as  'is  legs  would 
take  'im,  with  most  of  us  follering  behind  to  see  wot 
'appened. 

The  door  was  fastened  when  we  got  to  it,  but 
Dicky  Weed  banged  away  at  it  as  'ard  as  he  could 
bang,  and  at  last  the  bedroom  winder  went  up  and 
Mrs.  Pretty  stuck  her  'ead  out. 

"  she  ses,  in  a  whisper.    "Go  away." 

303 


Odd   Charges 

"I  want  to  see  Bob,"  ses  Dicky  Weed. 

"You  can't  see  'im,"  ses  Mrs.  Pretty.    "I'm  get- 


"  He  was  running  along  to  Bob  Pretty's  as  fast  as  'Is  legs  would  take  Mm." 

ting  'im  t©  bed.     He's  been  shot,  pore  dear.     Can't 
you  'ear  'im  groaning?" 

We  'adn't  up  to  then,  but  a'most  direckly  artcr  she 
304 


Odd  Charges 

fad  spoke  you  could  ha'  heard  Bob's  groans  a  mile 
away.  Dreadful,  they  was. 

"There,  there,  pore  dear,"  ses  Mrs.  Pretty. 

"Shall  I  come  in  and  'elp  you  get  'im  to  bed?"  ses 
Dicky  Weed,  'arf  crying. 

"No,  thank  you,  Mr.  Weed,"  ses  Mrs.  Pretty. 
"It's  very  kind  of  you  to  offer,  but  'e  wouldn't  like 
any  hands  but  mine  to  touch  'im.  I'll  send  in  and  let 
you  know  'ow  he  is  fust  thing  in  the  morning." 

"Try  and  get  'old  of  the  coat,  Dicky,"  ses  Bill 
Chambers,  in  a  whisper.  "Offer  to  mend  it  for  'im. 
It's  sure  to  want  it." 

"Well,  I'm  sorry  I  can't  be  no  'elp  to  you,"  ses 
Dicky  Weed,  "but  I  noticed  a  rent  in  Bob's  coat  and, 
as  'e's  likely  to  be  laid  up  a  bit,  it  ud  be  a  good  oppor- 
tunity for  me  to  mend  it  for  'im.  I  won't  charge  'im 
nothing.  If  you  drop  it  down  I'll  do  it  now." 

"Thankee,"  ses  Mrs.  Pretty;  "if  you  just  wait  a 
moment  I'll  clear  the  pockets  out  and  drop  it  down  to 
you." 

She  turned  back  into  the  bedroom,  and  Dicky 
Weed  ground  'is  teeth  together  and  told  Bill  Cham- 
bers that  the  next  time  he  took  'is  advice  he'd  remem- 
ber it.  He  stood  there  trembling  all  over  with  tem- 
per, and  when  Mrs.  Pretty  came  to  the  winder  agin 
and  dropped  the  coat  on  his  'ead  and  said  that  Bob 
felt  his  kindness  very  much,  and  he  'oped  Dicky  ud 
make  a  good  job  of  it,  because  it  was  'is  fav-rite  coat- 

305 


Odd   Charges 

he  couldn't  speak.  He  stood  there  shaking  all  over 
till  Mrs.  Pretty  'ad  shut  the  winder  down  agin,  and 
then  'e  turned  to  the  conjurer,  as  'ad  come  up  with 
the  rest  of  us,  and  asked  'im  wot  he  was  going  to 
do  about  it  now. 

"I  tell  you  he's  got  the  watch,"  ses  the  conjurer, 
pointing  up  at  the  winder.  "It  went  into  'is  pocket. 
I  saw  it  go.  He  was  no  more  shot  than  you  were. 
If  'e  was,  why  doesn't  he  send  for  the  doctor?" 

"I  can't  'elp  that,"  ses  Dicky  Weed.  "I  want  my 
watch  or  else  twenty  pounds." 

"We'll  talk  it  over  in  a  day  or  two,"  ses  the  con- 
jurer. "I'm  giving  my  celebrated  entertainment  at 
Wickham  Fair  on  Monday,  but  I'll  come  back  'ere 
to  the  Cauliflower  the  Saturday  before  and  give 
another  entertainment,  and  then  we'll  see  wot's  to  be 
done.  I  can't  run  away,  because  in  any  case  I  can't 
afford  to  miss  the  fair." 

Dicky  Weed  gave  way  at  last  and  went  off  'ome 
to  bed  and  told  'is  wife  about  it,  and  listening  to  'er 
advice  he  got  up  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  and 
went  round  to  see  'ow  Bob  Pretty  was. 

Mrs.  Pretty  was  up  when  'e  got  there,  and  arter 
calling  up  the  stairs  to  Bob  told  Dicky  Weed  to  go 
upstairs.  Bob  Pretty  was  sitting  up  in  bed  with  'is 
face  covered  in  bandages,  and  he  seemed  quite 
pleased  to  see  Mm. 

"It  ain't  everybody  that  ud  get  up  at  six  o'clock 
306 


Odd  Charges 


to  see  'ow  I'm  getting  on,"  he  ses.  "You've  got  a 
feeling  'art,  Dicky." 

Dicky  Weed  coughed  and  looked  round,  wonder- 
ing whether  the  watch  was  in  the  room,  and,  if  so, 
where  it  was  hidden. 

"Now  I'm  'ere  I  may  as  well  tidy  up  the  room  for 
you  a  bit,"  he  ses,  getting  up.  "I  don't  like  sitting 
idle." 

"Thankee,  mate,"  ses  Bob;  and  'e  lay  still  and 
watched  Dicky  Weed  out  of  the  corner  of  the  eye 
that  wasn't  covered  with  the  bandages. 

I  don't  suppose  that  room  'ad  ever  been  tidied  up 
so  thoroughly  since  the  Prettys  'ad  lived  there,  but 
Dicky  Weed  couldn't  see  anything  o'  the  watch,  and 
wot  made  'im  more  angry  than  anything  else  was 
Mrs.  Pretty  setting  down  in  a  chair  with  'er  'ands 
folded  in  her  lap  and  pointing  out  places  that  he 
'adn't  done. 

"You  leave  'im  alone,"  ses  Bob.  "//<?  knows  wot 
'cs  arter.  Wot  did  you  do  with  those  little  bits  o' 
watch  you  found  when  you  was  bandaging  me  up, 
missis?" 

"Don't  ask  me,"  ses  Mrs.  Pretty.  "I  was  in  such 
a  state  I  don't  know  wot  I  was  doing  'ardly." 

"Well,  they  must  be  about  somewhere,"  ses  Bob. 
"You  'ave  a  look  for  'em,  Dicky,  and  if  you  find  'em, 
keep  'em.  They  belong  to  you." 

Dicky  Weed  tried  to  be  civil  and  thank  'im,  and 

307 


Odd   Charges 


then  he  went  off  'ome  and  talked  it  over  with  'is  wife 
agin.  People  couldn't  make  up  their  minds  whether 
Bob  Pretty  'ad  found  the  watch  in  'is  pocket  and  was 
shamming,  or  whether  'e  was  really  shot,  but  they 
was  all  quite  certain  that,  whichever  way  it  was, 
Dicky  Weed  would  never  see  'is  watch  agin. 

On  the  Saturday  evening  this  'ere  Cauliflower 
public-'ouse  was  crowded,  everybody  being  anxious  to 
see  the  watch  trick  done  over  agin.  We  had  'eard 
that  it  'ad  been  done  all  right  at  Cudford  and  Monks- 
ham;  but  Bob  Pretty  said  as  'ow  he'd  believe  it  when 
'e  saw  it,  and  not  afore. 

He  was  one  o'  the  fust  to  turn  up  that  night,  be- 
cause 'e  said  'e  wanted  to  know  wot  the  conjurer  was 
going  to  pay  him  for  all  'is  pain  and  suffering  and 
having  things  said  about  'is  character.  He  came  in 
leaning  on  a  stick,  with  'is  face  still  bandaged,  and  sat 
right  up  close  to  the  conjurer's  table,  and  watched 
him  as  'ard  as  he  could  as  'e  went  through  'is  tricks. 

"And  now,"  ses  the  conjurer,  at  last,  "I  come  to 
my  celebrated  watch  trick.  Some  of  you  as  wos  'ere 
last  Tuesday  when  I  did  it  will  remember  that  the 
man  I  fired  the  pistol  at  pretended  that  'e'd  been  shot 
and  run  off  'ome  with  it  in  'is  pocket." 

"You're  a  liar!"  ses  Bob  Pretty,  standing  up. 

"Very  good,"  ses  the  conjurer;  "you  take  that 
bandage  off  and  show  us  all  where  you're  hurt." 

308 


Odd  Charges 

"I  shall  do  nothing  o'  the  kind,"  ses  Bob.  "I 
don't  take  my  orders  from  you." 

"Take  the  bandage  off,"  ses  the  conjurer,  "and  if 
there's  any  shot  marks  I'll  give  you  a  couple  o'  sov- 
ereigns." 

"I'm  afraid  of  the  air  getting  to  it,"  ses  Bob 
Pretty. 

"You  don't  want  to  be  afraid  o'  that,  Bob,"  ses 
John  Biggs,  the  blacksmith,  coming  up  behind  and 
putting  'is  great  arms  round  'im.  "Take  off  that 
rag,  somebody;  I've  got  hold  of  'im." 

Bob  Pretty  started  to  struggle  at  fust,  but  then, 
seeing  it  was  no  good,  kept  quite  quiet  while  they 
took  off  the  bandages. 

"There!  look  at  Mm,"  ses  the  conjurer,  pointing. 
"Not  a  mark  on  'is  face,  not  one." 

"Wot!"  ses  Bob  Pretty.  "Do  you  mean  to  say 
there's  no  marks?" 

"I  do,"  ses  the  conjurer. 

"Thank  goodness,"  ses  Bob  Pretty,  clasping  his 
'ands.  "Thank  goodness!  I  was  afraid  I  was  dis- 
figured for  life.  Lend  me  a  bit  o'  looking-glass, 
somebody.  I  can  'ardly  believe  it." 

"You  stole  Dicky  Weed's  watch,"  ses  John  Biggs. 
"I  'ad  my  suspicions  of  you  all  along.  You're  a 
thief,  Bob  Pretty.  That's  wot  you  are." 

"Prove  it,"  ses  Bob  Pretty.  "You  'card  wot  the 
conjurer  said  the  other  night,  that  the  last  time  he 

309 


Odd  Charges 

tried  'e  failed,  and  'ad  to  give  eighteenpence  to  the 
man  wot  the  watch  'ad  belonged  to." 

"That  was  by  way  of  a  joke  like,"  ses  the  conjurer 
to  John  Biggs.  "I  can  always  do  it.  I'm  going  to 
do  it  now.  Will  somebody  'ave  the  kindness  to  lend 
me  a  watch?" 

He  looked  all  round  the  room,  but  nobody  offered 
— except  other  men's  watches,  wot  wouldn't  lend  'em. 

"Come,  come,"  he  ses;  "ain't  none  of  you  got  any 
trust  in  me?  It'll  be  as  safe  as  if  it  was  in  your 
pocket.  I  want  to  prove  to  you  that  this  man  is  a 
thief." 

He  asked  'em  agin,  and  at  last  John  Biggs  took 
out  'is  silver  watch  and  offered  it  to  'im  on  the  under- 
standing that  'e  was  on  no  account  to  fire  it  into  Bob 
Pretty's  pocket. 

"Not  likely,"  ses  the  conjurer.  "Now,  everybody 
take  a  good  look  at  this  watch,  so  as  to  make  sure 
there's  no  deceiving." 

He  'anded  it  round,  and  arter  everybody  'ad  taken 
a  look  at  it  'e  took  it  up  to  the  table  and  laid  it  down. 

"Let  me  'ave  a  look  at  it,"  ses  Bob  Pretty,  going 
up  to  the  table.  "I'm  not  going  to  'ave  my  good 
name  took  away  for  nothing  if  I  can  'elp  it." 

He  took  it  up  and  looked  at  it,  and  arter  'olding 
it  to  'is  ear  put  it  down  agin. 

"Is  that  the  flat-iron  it's  going  to  be  smashed 
with?"  he  ses. 

310 


Odd  Charges 

"It  is,"  ses  the  conjurer,  looking  at  'im  nasty  like; 
'p'r'aps  you'd  like  to  examine  it." 
Bob  Pretty  took  it  and  looked  at  it. 


"  Afore  anybody  could  move,  he  brought  it  down  bang  on  the  face  o'  the  watch.** 

"Yes,  mates,"  he  ses,  "it's  a  ordinary  flat-iron. 
You  couldn't  'ave  anything  better  for  smashing  a 
watch  with." 

3" 


Odd  Charges 

He  'eld  it  up  in  the  'air  and,  afore  anybody  could 
move,. brought  it  down  bang  on  the  face  o'  the  watch. 
The  conjurer  sprang  at  'im  and  caught  at  'is  arm, 
but  it  was  too  late,  and  in  a  terrible  state  o'  mind  'e 
turned  round  to  John  Biggs. 

"He's  smashed  your  watch,"  he  ses;  "he's  smashed 
your  watch." 

"Well,"  ses  John  Biggs,  "it  'ad  got  to  be  smashed, 
'adn't  it?" 

"Yes,  but  not  by  'im,"  ses  the  conjurer,  dancing 
about.  "I  wash  my  'ands  of  it  now." 

"Look  'ere,"  ses  John  Biggs;  "don't  you  talk  to  me 
about  washing  your  'ands  of  it.  You  finish  your  trick 
and  give  me  my  watch  back  agin  same  as  it  was 
afore." 

"Not  now  he's  been  interfering  with  it,"  ses  the 
conjurer.  "He'd  better  do  the  trick  now  as  he's  so 
clever." 

"I'd  sooner  'ave  you  do  it,"  ses  John  Biggs.  "Wot 
did  you  let  'im  interfere  for?" 

"'Ow  was  I  to  know  wot  'e  was  going  to  do?"  ses 
the  conjurer.  "You  must  settle  it  between  you  now. 
I'll  'ave  nothing  more  to  do  with  it." 

"All  right,  John  Biggs,"  ses  Bob  Pretty;  "if  'e 
won't  do  it,  I  will.  If  it  can  be  done,  I  don't  s'pose 
it  matters  who  does  it.  I  don't  think  anybody  could 
smash  up  a  watch  better  than  that." 

312 


Odd  Charges 

John  Biggs  looked  at  it,  and  then  'e  asked  the  con- 
jurer once  more  to  do  the  trick,  but  'e  wouldn't. 

"It  can't  be  done  now,"  he  ses;  "and  I  warn  you 
that  if  that  pistol  is  fired  I  won't  be  responsible  for 
what'll  'appen." 

"George  Kettle  shall  load  the  pistol  and  fire  it  if 
'e  won't,"  ses  Bob  Pretty.  "'Aving  been  in  the  Mili- 
tia, there  couldn't  be  a  better  man  for  the  job." 

George  Kettle  walked  up  to  the  table  as  red  as  fire 
at  being  praised  like  that  afore  people  and  started 
loading  the  pistol.  He  seemed  to  be  more  awkward 
about  it  than  the  conjurer  'ad  been  the  last  time,  and 
he  'ad  to  roll  the  watch-cases  up  with  the  flat-iron 
afore  'e  could  get  'em  in.  But  'e  loaded  it  at  last  and 
stood  waiting. 

"Don't  shoot  at  me,  George  Kettle,"  ses  Bob. 
"I've  been  called  a  thief  once,  and  I  don't  want  to 
be  agin." 

"Put  that  pistol  down,  you  fool,  afore  you  do  mis- 
chief," ses  the  conjurer. 

"Who  shall  I  shoot  at?"  ses  George  Kettle,  raising 
the  pistol. 

"Better  fire  at  the  conjurer,  I  think,"  ses  Bob 
Pretty;  "and  if  things  'appen  as  he  says  they  will 
'appen,  the  watch  ought  to  be  found  in  'is  coat- 
pocket." 

"Where  is  he?"  ses  George,  looking  round. 


Odd  Charges 

Bill  Chambers  laid  'old  of  'im  just  as  he  was  going 
through  the  door  to  fetch  the  landlord,  and  the 
scream  'e  gave  as  he  came  back  and  George  Kettle 
pointed  the  pistol  at  'im  was  awful. 


•«T1*E  scream  *e  gave  as  George  Kettle  pointed  the  pistol  at  Mm  was  awful." 

"Don't  be  silly,"  ses  George.     "Nobody's  going 
to  hurt  you." 


Odd  Charges 


"It's  no  worse  for  you  than  it  was  for  me,"  ses 
Bob. 

"Put  it  down,"  screams  the  conjurer;  "put  it  down. 
You'll  kill  'arf  the  men  in  the  room  if  it  goes  off." 

"Be  careful  where  you  aim,  George,"  ses  Sam 
Jones.  "P'r'aps  he'd  better  'ave  a  chair  all  by  hisself 
in  the  middle  of  the  room." 

It  was  all  very  well  for  Sam  Jones  to  talk,  but  the 
conjurer  wouldn't  sit  on  a  chair  by  'imself.  He 
wouldn't  sit  on  it  at  all.  He  seemed  to  be  all  legs 
and  arms,  and  the  way  'e  struggled  it  took  four  or 
five  men  to  'old  'im. 

"Why  don't  you  keep  still?"  ses  John  Biggs. 
"George  Kettle'll  shoot  it  in  your  pocket  all  right. 
He's  the  best  shot  in  Claybury." 

"Help!  Murder!"  says  the  conjurer,  struggling. 
"He'll  kill  me.  Nobody  can  do  the  trick  but  me." 

"But  you  say  you  won't  do  it,"  ses  John  Biggs. 

"Not  now,"  ses  the  conjurer;  "I  can't." 

"Well,  I'm  not  going  to  'ave  my  watch  lost 
through  want  of  trying,"  ses  John  Biggs.  "Tie  'im 
to  the  chair,  mates." 

"All  right,  then,"  ses  the  conjurer,  very  pale. 
"Don't  tie  me;  I'll  sit  still  all  right  if  you  like,  but 
you'd  better  bring  the  chair  outside  in  case  of  acci- 
dents. Bring  it  in  the  front." 

George  Kettle  said  it  was  all  nonsense,  but  the  con- 
jurer said  the  trick  was  always  better  done  in  the  open 

315 


Odd   Charges 


air,  and  at  last  they  gave  way  and  took  'im  and  the 
chair  outside. 

"Now,"  ses  the  conjurer,  as  'e  sat  down,  "all  of 
you  go  and  stand  near  the  man  wot's  going  to  shoot. 
When  I  say  'Three,'  fire.  Why!  there's  the  watch 
on  the  ground  there !" 

He  pointed  with  'is  finger,  and  as  they  all  looked 
down  he  jumped  up  out  o'  that  chair  and  set  off  on 
the  road  to  Wickham  as  'ard  as  'e  could  run.  It  was 
so  sudden  that  nobody  knew  wot  'ad  'appened  for  a 
moment,  and  then  George  Kettle,  wot  'ad  been  look- 
ing with  the  rest,  turned  round  and  pulled  the  trig- 
ger. 

There  was  a  bang  that  pretty  nigh  deafened  us, 
and  the  back  o'  the  chair  was  blown  nearly  out.  By 
the  time  we'd  got  our  senses  agin  the  conjurer  was 
a'most  out  o'  sight,  and  Bob  Pretty  was  explaining 
to  John  Biggs  wot  a  good  job  it  was  'is  watch  'adn't 
been  a  gold  one. 

"That's  wot  comes  o'  trusting  a  foreigner  afore 
a  man  wot  you've  known  all  your  life,"  he  ses,  shak- 
ing his  'ead.  "I  'ope  the  next  man  wot  tries  to  take 
my  good  name  away  won't  get  off  so  easy.  I  felt  all 
along  the  trick  couldn't  be  done;  it  stands  to  reason  it 
couldn't.  I  done  my  best,  too." 


316 


ADMIRAL    PETERS 


m 


ADMIRAL    PETERS 

MR.  GEORGE  BURTON,  naval  pensioner, 
sat  at  the  door  of  his  lodgings  gazing  in 
placid  content  at  the  sea.     It  was  early 
summer,  and  the  air  was  heavy  with  the  scent  of 
flowers;  Mr.  Burton's  pipe  was  cold  and  empty,  and 
his  pouch  upstairs.     He  shook  his  head  gently  as  he 
realised  this,  and,  yielding  to  the  drowsy  quiet  of  his 
surroundings,  laid  aside  the  useless  pipe  and  fell  into 
a  doze. 

He  was  awakened  half  an  hour  later  by  the  sound 
of  footsteps.  A  tall,  strongly  built  man  was  ap- 
proaching from  the  direction  of  the  town,  and  Mr. 
Burton,  as  he  gazed  at  him  sleepily,  began  to  wonder 
where  he  had  seen  him  before.  Even  when  the 
stranger  stopped  and  stood  smiling  down  at  him  his 
memory  proved  unequal  to  the  occasion,  and  he  sat 
staring  at  the  handsome,  shaven  face,  with  its  lit- 
tle fringe  of  grey  whisker,  waiting  for  enlighten- 
ment. 

"George,  my  buck,"  said  the  stranger,  giving  him 
a  hearty  slap  on  the  shoulder,  "how  goes  it?" 

Bless  my  eyes,  I  mean,"  said  Mr.  Bur- 


Admiral  Peters 

ton,   correcting  himself,    "if  it  ain't  Joe   Stiles.      I 
didn't  know  you  without  your  beard." 

"That's  me,"  said  the  other.  "It's  quite  by  acci- 
dent I  heard  where  you  were  living,  George ;  I  offered 
to  go  and  sling  my  hammock  with  old  Dingle  for  a 
week  or  two,  and  he  told  me.  Nice  quiet  little  place, 
Seacombe.  Ah,  you  were  lucky  to  get  your  pension, 
George." 

"I  deserved  it,"  said  Mr.  Burton,  sharply,  as  he 
fancied  he  detected  something  ambiguous  in  his 
friend's  remark. 

"Of  course  you  did,"  said  Mr.  Stiles;  "so  did  I, 
but  I  didn't  get  it.  Well,  it's  a  poor  heart  that  never 
rejoices.  What  about  that  drink  you  were  speaking 
of,  George?" 

"I  hardly  ever  touch  anything  now,"  replied  his 
friend. 

"I  was  thinking  about  myself,"  said  Mr.  Stiles.  "I 
can't  bear  the  stuff,  but  the  doctor  says  I  must  have  it. 
You  know  what  doctors  are,  George !" 

Mr.  Burton  did  not  deign  to  reply,  but  led  the  way 
indoors. 

"Very  comfortable  quarters,  George,"  remarked 
Mr.  Stiles,  gazing  round  the  room  approvingly; 
"ship-shape  and  tidy.  I'm  glad  I  met  old  Dingle. 
Why,  I  might  never  ha'  seen  you  again ;  and  us  such 
pals,  too." 

His  host  grunted,  and  from  the  back  of  a  small  cup- 

320 


Admiral  Peters 

board  produced  a  bottle  of  whisky  and  a  glass,  and 
set  them  on  the  table.  After  a  momentary  hesitation 
he  found  another  glass. 

"Our  noble  selves,"  said  Mr.  Stiles,  with  a  tinge 
of  reproach  in  his  tones,  "and  may  we  never  forget 
old  friendships." 

Mr.  Burton  drank  the  toast.  "I  hardly  know  what 
it's  like  now,  Joe,"  he  said,  slowly.  "You  wouldn't 
believe  how  soon  you  can  lose  the  taste  for  it." 

Mr.  Stiles  said  he  would  take  his  word  for  it. 
"You've  got  some  nice  little  public-houses  about  here, 
too,"  he  remarked.  "There's  one  I  passed  called  the 
Cock  and  Flowerpot;  nice  cosy  little  place  it  would 
be  to  spend  the  evening  in." 

"I  never  go  there,"  said  Mr.  Burton,  hastily.  "I 
— a  friend  o'  mine  here  doesn't  approve  o'  public- 
'ouses." 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?"  inquired  his  friend, 
anxiously. 

"It's — it's  a  'er,"  said  Mr.  Burton,  in  some  con- 
fusion. 

Mr.  Stiles  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair  and 
eyed  him  with  amazement.  Then,  recovering  his 
presence  of  mind,  he  reached  out  his  hand  for  the 
bottle. 

"We'll  drink  her  health,"  he  said,  in  a  deep  voice. 
"What's  her  name?" 

"Mrs.  Button,"  was  the  reply. 
321 


Admiral  Peters 

Mr.  Stiles,  with  one  hand  on  his  heart,  toasted  her 
feelingly;  then,  filling  up  again,  he  drank  to  the 
"happy  couple." 

"She's  very  strict  about  drink,"  said  Mr.  Burton, 
eyeing  these  proceedings  with  some  severity. 

"Any — dibs?"  inquired  Mr.  Stiles,  slapping  a 
pocket  which  failed  to  ring  in  response. 

"She's  comfortable,"  replied  the  other,  awkwardly. 
"Got  a  little  stationer's  shop  in  the  town;  steady,  old- 
fashioned  business.  She's  chapel,  and  very  strict." 

"Just  what  you  want,"  remarked  Mr.  Stiles,  plac- 
ing his  glass  on  the  table.  "What  d'ye  say  to  a 
stroll?" 

Mr.  Burton  assented,  and,  having  replaced  the 
black  bottle  in  the  cupboard,  led  the  way  along  the 
cliffs  toward  the  town  some  half-mile  distant,  Mr. 
Stiles  beguiling  the  way  by  narrating  his  adventures 
since  they  had  last  met.  A  certain  swagger  and  rich- 
ness of  deportment  were  explained  by  his  statement 
that  he  had  been  on  the  stage. 

"Only  walking  on,"  he  said,  with  a  shake  of  his 
head.  "The  only  speaking  part  I  ever  had  was  a 
cough.  You  ought  to  ha'  heard  that  cough,  George  I" 

Mr.  Burton  politely  voiced  his  regrets  and  watched 
him  anxiously.  Mr.  Stiles,  shaking  his  head  over  a 
somewhat  unsuccessful  career,  was  making  a  bee-line 
for  the  Cock  and  Flowerpot. 

"Just  for  a  small  soda,"  he  explained,  and,  once 
322 


Admiral  Peters 

inside,  changed  his  mind  and  had  whisky  instead. 
Mr.  Burton,  sacrificing  principle  to  friendship,  had 
one  with  him.  The  bar  more  than  fulfilled  Mr. 
Stiles's  ideas  as  to  its  cosiness,  and  within  the  space  of 
ten  minutes  he  was  on  excellent  terms  with  the  regu- 
lar clients.  Into  the  little,  old-world  bar,  with  its 
loud-ticking  clock,  its  Windsor-chairs,  and  its  cracked 
jug  full  of  roses,  he  brought  a  breath  of  the  bustle  of 
the  great  city  and  tales  of  the  great  cities  beyond  the 
seas.  Refreshment  was  forced  upon  him,  and  Mr. 
Burton,  pleased  at  his  friend's  success,  shared  mildly 
in  his  reception.  It  was  nine  o'clock  before  they  de- 
parted, and  then  they  only  left  to  please  the  land- 
lord. 

"Nice  lot  o'  chaps,"  said  Mr.  Stiles,  as  he  stumbled 
out  into  the  sweet,  cool  air.  "Catch  hold — o'  my — 
arm,  George.  Brace  me — up  a  bit." 

Mr.  Burton  complied,  and  his  friend,  reassured  as 
to  his  footing,  burst  into  song.  In  a  stentorian  voice 
he  sang  the  latest  song  from  comic  opera,  and  then 
with  an  adjuration  to  Mr.  Burton  to  see  what  he  was 
about,  and  not  to  let  him  trip,  he  began,  in  a  lumber- 
ing fashion,  to  dance. 

Mr.  Burton,  still  propping  him  up,  trod  a  measure 
with  fewer  steps,  and  cast  uneasy  glances  up  the 
lonely  road.  On  their  left  the  sea  broke  quietly  on 
the  beach  below;  on  their  right  were  one  or  two  scat- 
tered cottages,  at  the  doors  of  which  an  occasional 

323 


Admiral  Peters 

figure  appeared  to  gaze  in  mute  astonishment  at  the 
proceedings. 

"Dance,  George,"  said  Mr.  Stiles,  who  found  his 
friend  rather  an  encumbrance. 

"Hs'h!  Stop!"  cried  the  frantic  Mr.  Burton,  as 
he  caught  sight  of  a  woman's  figure  bidding  farewell 
in  a  lighted  doorway. 

Mr.  Stiles  replied  with  a  stentorian  roar,  and  Mr. 
Burton,  clinging  despairingly  to  his  jigging  friend 
lest  a  worse  thing  should  happen,  cast  an  imploring 
glance  at  Mrs.  Button  as  they  danced  by.  The  even- 
ing was  still  light  enough  for  him  to  see  her  face,  and 
he  piloted  the  corybantic  Mr.  Stiles  the  rest  of  the 
way  home  in  a  mood  which  accorded  but  ill  with  his 
steps. 

His  manner  at  breakfast  next  morning  was  so  of- 
fensive that  Mr.  Stiles,  who  had  risen  fresh  as  a  daisy 
and  been  out  to  inhale  the  air  on  the  cliffs,  was  some- 
what offended. 

"You  go  down  and  see  her,"  he  said,  anxiously. 
"Don't  lose  a  moment;  and  explain  to  her  that  it  was 
the  sea-air  acting  on  an  old  sunstroke." 

"She  ain't  a  fool,"  said  Mr.  Burton,  gloomily. 

He  finished  his  breakfast  in  silence,  and,  leaving 
the  repentant  Mr.  Stiles  sitting  in  the  doorway  with 
a  pipe,  went  down  to  the  widow's  to  make  the  best 
explanation  he  could  think  of  on  the  way.  Mrs. 
Dutton's  fresh-coloured  face  changed  as  he  entered 

324 


Admiral   Peters 

the  shop,  and  her  still  good  eyes  regarded  him  with 
scornful  interrogation. 

"I — saw  you  last  night,"  began  Mr.  Burton,  tim- 
idly. 

"I  saw  you,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Button.  "I  couldn't 
believe  my  eyesight  at  first." 

"It  was  an  old  shipmate  of  mine,"  said  Mr.  Bur- 
ton. "He  hadn't  seen  me  for  years,  and  I  suppose 
the  sight  of  me  upset  'im." 

"I  dare  say,"  replied  the  widow;  "that  and  the 
Cock  and  Flowerpot,  too.  I  heard  about  it." 

"He  would  go,"  said  the  unfortunate. 

"Tou  needn't  have  gone,"  was  the  reply. 

"I  'ad  to,"  said  Mr.  Burton,  with  a  gulp;  "he — 
he's  an  old  officer  o'  mine,  and  it  wouldn't  ha'  been 
discipline  for  me  to  refuse." 

"Officer?"  repeated  Mrs.  Dutton. 

"My  old  admiral,"  said  Mr.  Burton,  with  a  gulp 
that  nearly  choked  him.  "You've  heard  me  speak  of 
Admiral  Peters?" 

"Admiral?"  gasped  the  astonished  widow. 
"What,  a-carrying  on  like  that?" 

"He's  a  reg'lar  old  sea-dog,"  said  Mr.  Burton. 
"He's  staying  with  me,  but  of  course  'e  don't  want  it 
known  who  he  is.  I  couldn't  refuse  to  'ave  a  drink 
with  'im.  I  was  under  orders,  so  to  speak." 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  said  Mrs.  Dutton,  softening. 
"Fancy  him  staying  with  you !" 

325 


Admiral   Peters 

"He  just  run  down  for  the  night,  but  I  expect  he'll 
be  going  'ome  in  an  hour  or  two,"  said  Mr.  Burton, 
who  saw  an  excellent  reason  now  for  hastening  his 
guest's  departure. 

Mrs.  Button's  face  fell.  "Dear  me,"  she  mur- 
mured, "I  should  have  liked  to  have  seen  him;  you 
have  told  me  so  much  about  him.  If  he  doesn't  go 
quite  so  soon,  and  you  would  like  to  bring  him  here 
when  you  come  to-night,  I'm  sure  I  should  be  very 
pleased." 

"I'll  mention  it  to  'im,"  said  Mr.  Burton,  marvel- 
ling at  the  change  in  her  manner. 

"Didn't  you  say  once  that  he  was  uncle  to  Lord 
Buckfast?"  inquired  Mrs.  Dutton,  casually. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Burton,  with  unnecessary  dogged- 
ness;  "I  did." 

"The  idea  of  an  admiral  staying  with  you!"  said 
Mrs.  Dutton. 

"Reg'lar  old  sea-dog,"  said  Mr.  Burton  again; 
"and,  besides,  he  don't  want  it  known.  It's  a  secret 
between  us  three,  Mrs.  Dutton." 

"To  be  sure,"  said  the  widow.  "You  can  tell  the 
admiral  that  I  shall  not  mention  it  to  a  soul,"  she 
added,  mincingly. 

Mr.  Burton  thanked  her  and  withdrew,  lest  Mr. 
Stiles  should  follow  him  up  before  apprised  of  his 
sudden  promotion.  He  found  that  gentleman,  how- 
ever, still  sitting  at  the  front  door,  smoking  serenely. 

326 


Admiral   Peters 

"I'll  stay  with  you  for  a  week  or  two,"  said  Mr. 
Stiles,  briskly,  as  soon  as  the  other  had  told  his  story. 
"It'll  do  you  a  world  o'  good  to  be  seen  on  friendly 
terms  with  an  admiral,  and  I'll  put  in  a  good  word 
for  you." 

Mr.  Burton  shook  his  head.  "No,  she  might  find 
out,"  he  said,  slowly.  "I  think  that  the  best  thing  is 
for  you  to  go  home  after  dinner,  Joe,  and  just  give 
'er  a  look  in  on  the  way,  p'r'aps.  You  could  say  a  lot 
o'  things  about  me  in  'arf  an  hour." 

"No,  George,"  said  Mr.  Stiles,  beaming  on  him 
kindly;  "when  I  put  my  hand  to  the  plough  I  don't 
draw  back.  It's  a  good  speaking  part,  too,  an  ad- 
miral's. I  wonder  whether  I  might  use  old  Peters's 
language." 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Mr.  Burton,  in  alarm. 
"You  don't  know  how  particular  she  is." 

Mr.  Stiles  sighed,  and  said  that  he  would  do  the 
best  he  could  without  it.  He  spent  most  of  the  day 
on  the  beach  smoking,  and  when  evening  came  shaved 
himself  with  extreme  care  and  brushed  his  serge 
suit  with  great  perseverance  in  preparation  for  his 
visit. 

Mr.  Burton  performed  the  ceremony  of  introduc- 
tion with  some  awkwardness;  Mr.  Stiles  was  affect- 
ing a  stateliness  of  manner  which  was  not  without 
distinction;  and  Mrs.  Button,  in  a  black  silk  dress 
and  the  cameo  brooch  which  had  belonged  to  her 

327 


Admiral   Peters 

mother,  was  no  less  important.     Mr.  Burton  had  an 
odd  feeling  of  inferiority. 

"It's  a  very  small  place  to  ask  you  to,  Admiral 
Peters,"  said  the  widow,  offering  him  a  chair. 


"  Mr.  Stiles  was  affecting  a  stateliness  of  manner  which  was  not  without 
distinction." 

"It's  comfortable,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Stiles,  look- 
ing round  approvingly.  "Ah,  you  should  see  some 
of  the  palaces  I've  been  in  abroad;  all  show  and  no 

328 


Admiral  Peters 

comfort.    Not  a  decent  chair  in  the  place.    And,  as 

for  the  antimacassars " 

.  "Are  you  making  a  long  stay,  Admiral  Peters?" 
inquired  the  delighted  widow. 

"It  depends,"  was  the  reply.  "My  intention  was 
just  to  pay  a  flying  visit  to  my  honest  old  friend  Bur- 
ton here — best  man  in  my  squadron — but  he  is  so 
hospitable,  he's  been  pressing  me  to  stay  for  a  few 
weeks." 

"But  the  admiral  says  he  must  get  back  to-morrow 
morning,"  interposed  Mr.  Burton,  firmly. 

"Unless  I  have  a  letter  at  breakfast-time,  Burton," 
said  Mr.  Stiles,  serenely. 

Mr.  Burton  favoured  him  with  a  mutinous  scowl. 

"Oh,  I  do  hope  you  will,"  said  Mrs.  Button. 

"I  have  a  feeling  that  I  shall,"  said  Mr.  Stiles, 
crossing  glances  with  his  friend.  "The  only  thing 
is  my  people;  they  want  me  to  join  them  at  Lord 
Tufton's  place." 

Mrs.  Button  trembled  with  delight  at  being  in  the 
company  of  a  man  with  such  friends.  "What  a 
change  shore-life  must  be  to  you  after  the  perils  of 
the  sea  !"  she  murmured. 

"Ah !"  said  Mr.  Stiles.     "True!    True!" 

"The  dreadful  fighting,"  said  Mrs.  Button,  clos- 
ing her  eyes  and  shuddering. 

"You  get  used  to  it,"  said  the  hero,  simply.  "Hot- 
test time  I  had  I  think  was  at  the  bombardment  of 

329 


Admiral  Peters 

Alexandria.  I  stood  alone.  All  the  men  who  hadn't 
been  shot  down  had  fled,  and  the  shells  were  bursting 
round  me  like — like  fireworks." 

The  widow  clasped  her  hands  and  shuddered 
again. 

"I  was  standing  just  behind  'im,  waiting  any  or- 
ders he  might  give,"  said  Mr.  Burton. 

"Were  you?"  said  Mr.  Stiles,  sharply — "were 
you  ?  I  don't  remember  it,  Burton." 

"Why,"  said  Mr.  Burton,  with  a  faint  laugh,  "I 
was  just  behind  you,  sir.  If  you  remember,  sir,  I 
said  to  you  that  it  was  pretty  hot  work." 

Mr.  Stiles  affected  to  consider.  "No,  Burton,"  he 
said,  bluffly — "no;  so  far  as  my  memory  goes  I  was 
the  only  man  there." 

"A  bit  of  a  shell  knocked  my  cap  off,  sir,"  per- 
sisted Mr.  Burton,  making  laudable  efforts  to  keep 
his  temper. 

"That'll  do,  my  man,"  said  the  other,  sharply; 
"not  another  word.  You  forget  yourself." 

He  turned  to  the  widow  and  began  to  chat  about 
"his  people"  again  to  divert  her  attention  from  Mr. 
Burton,  who  seemed  likely  to  cause  unpleasantness  by 
either  bursting  a  blood-vessel  or  falling  into  a  fit. 

"My  people  have  heard  of  Burton,"  he  said,  with 
a  slight  glance  to  see  how  that  injured  gentleman  was 
progressing.  "He  has  often  shared  my  dangers.  We 
have  been  in  many  tight  places  together.  Do  you 

330 


Admiral  Peters 

remember  those  two  nights  when  we  were  hidden  in 
the  chimney  at  the  palace  of  the  Sultan  of  Zanzibar, 
Burton?" 

"I  should  think  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Burton,  recovering 
somewhat. 

"Stuck  so  tight  we  could  hardly  breathe,"  con- 
tinued the  other. 

"I  shall  never  forget  it  as  long  as  I  live,"  said  Mr. 
Burton,  who  thought  that  the  other  was  trying  to 
make  amends  for  his  recent  indiscretion. 

"Oh,  do  tell  me  about  it,  Admiral  Peters,"  cried 
Mrs.  Dutton. 

"Surely  Burton  has  told  you  that?"  said  Mr. 
Stiles. 

"Never  breathed  a  word  of  it,"  said  the  widow, 
gazing  somewhat  reproachfully  at  the  discomfited 
Mr.  Burton. 

"Well,  tell  it  now,  Burton,"  said  Mr.  Stiles. 

"You  tell  it  better  than  I  do,  sir,"  said  the  other. 

"No,  no,"  said  Mr.  Stiles,  whose  powers  of  inven- 
tion were  not  always  to  be  relied  upon.  "You  tell  it; 
it's  your  story." 

The  widow  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

"It's  your  story,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Burton. 

"No,  I  won't  tell  it,"  said  Mr.  Stiles.  "It  wouldn't 
be  fair  to  you,  Burton.  I'd  forgotten  that  when  I 
spoke.  Of  course,  you  were  young  at  the  time, 
still " 


Admiral  Peters 

"I  done  nothing  that  I'm  ashamed  of,  sir,"  said 
Mr.  Burton,  trembling  with  passion. 

"I  think  it's  very  hard  if  I'm  not  to  hear  it,"  said 
Mrs.  Dutton,  with  her  most  fascinating  air. 

Mr.  Stiles  gave  her  a  significant  glance,  and  screw- 
ing up  his  lips  nodded  in  the  direction  of  Mr.  Burton. 

"At  any  rate,  you  were  in  the  chimney  with  me, 
sir,"  said  that  unfortunate. 

"Ah!"  said  the  other,  severely.  "But  what  was  I 
there  for,  my  man?" 

Mr.  Burton  could  not  tell  him;  he  could  only  stare 
at  him  in  a  frenzy  of  passion  and  dismay. 

"What  were  you  there  for,  Admiral  Peters?"  in- 
quired Mrs.  Dutton. 

"I  was  there,  ma'am,"  said  the  unspeakable  Mr. 
Stiles,  slowly — "I  was  there  to  save  the  life  of  Bur- 
ton. I  never  deserted  my  men — never.  Whatever 
scrapes  they  got  into  I  always  did  my  best  to  get  them 
out.  News  was  brought  to  me  that  Burton  was  suffo- 
cating in  the  chimney  of  the  Sultan's  favourite  wife, 
and  I " 

"Sultans  favourite  wife!"  gasped  Mrs.   Dutton, 
staring  hard  at  Mr.  Burton,  who  had  collapsed  in  his 
chair  and  was  regarding  the  ingenious  Mr.  Stiles  with 
open-mouthed  stupefaction.     "Good  gracious  !     I — I 
never  heard  of  such  a  thing.     I  am  surprised !" 
"So  am  I,"  said  Mr.  Burton,  thickly.    "I— I- 
"How  did  you  escape,  Admiral  Peters?"  inquired 
332 


Admiral  Peters 

the  widow,  turning  from  the  flighty  Burton  in  indig- 
nation. 

Mr.  Stiles  shook  his  head.  "To  tell  you  that 
would  be  to  bring  the  French  Consul  into  it,"  he  said, 
gently.  "I  oughtn't  to  have  mentioned  the  subject  at 
all.  Burton  had  the  good  sense  not  to." 

The  widow  murmured  acquiescence,  and  stole  a 
look  at  the  prosaic  figure  of  the  latter  gentleman 
which  was  full  of  scornful  curiosity.  With  some  dif- 
fidence she  invited  the  admiral  to  stay  to  supper,  and 
was  obviously  delighted  when  he  accepted. 

In  the  character  of  admiral  Mr.  Stiles  enjoyed 
himself  amazingly,  his  one  regret  being  that  no  dis- 
criminating theatrical  manager  was  present  to  witness 
his  performance.  His  dignity  increased  as  the  even- 
ing wore  on,  and  from  good-natured  patronage  of  the 
unfortunate  Burton  he  progressed  gradually  until  he 
was  shouting  at  him.  Once,  when  he  had  occasion 
to  ask  Mr.  Burton  if  he  intended  to  contradict  him, 
his  appearance  was  so  terrible  that  his  hostess  turned 
pale  and  trembled  with  excitement. 

Mr.  Burton  adopted  the  air  for  his  own  use  as 
soon  as  they  were  clear  of  Mrs.  Button's  doorstep, 
and  in  good  round  terms  demanded  of  Mr.  Stiles 
what  he  meant  by  it. 

"It  was  a  difficult  part  to  play,  George,"  responded 
his  friend.  "We  ought  to  have  rehearsed  it  a  bit.  I 
did  the  best  I  could." 

333 


Admiral  Peters 

"Best  you  could?"  stormed  Mr.  Burton.  "Telling 
lies  and  ordering  me  about?" 

"I  had  to  play  the  part  without  any  preparation, 
George,"  said  the  other,  firmly.  "You  got  yourself 
into  the  difficulty  by  saying  that  I  was  the  admiral  in 
the  first  place.  I'll  do  better  next  time  we  go." 

Mr.  Burton,  with  a  nasty  scowl,  said  that  there 
was  not  going  to  be  any  next  time,  but  Mr.  Stiles 
smiled  as  one  having  superior  information.  Deaf 
first  to  hints  and  then  to  requests  to  seek  his  pleasure 
elsewhere,  he  stayed  on,  and  Mr.  Burton  was  soon 
brought  to  realise  the  difficulties  which  beset  the  path 
of  the  untruthful. 

The  very  next  visit  introduced  a  fresh  complica- 
tion, it  being  evident  to  the  most  indifferent  spectator 
that  Mr.  Stiles  and  the  widow  were  getting  on  very 
friendly  terms.  Glances  of  unmistakable  tenderness 
passed  between  them,  and  on  the  occasion  of  the  third 
visit  Mr.  Burton  sat  an  amazed  and  scandalised  spec- 
tator of  a  flirtation  of  the  most  pronounced  descrip- 
tion. A  despairing  attempt  on  his  part  to  lead  the 
conversation  into  safer  and,  to  his  mind,  more  becom- 
ing channels  only  increased  his  discomfiture.  Neither 
of  them  took  any  notice  of  it,  and  a  minute  later  Mr. 
Stiles  called  the  widow  a  "saucy  little  baggage,"  and 
said  that  she  reminded  him  of  the  Duchess  of  Mar- 
ford. 

334 


Admiral  Peters 

"I  used  to  think  she  was  the  most  charming  woman 
in  England,"  he  said,  meaningly. 

Mrs.  Dutton  simpered  and  looked  down;  Mr. 
Stiles  moved  his  chair  a  little  closer  to  her,  and  then 
glanced  thoughtfully  at  his  friend. 


"  Mr.  Stiles  called  the  widow  a  '  saucy  little  baggage.'  *' 

"Burton,"  he  said. 

"Sir,"  snapped  the  other. 

"Run  back  and  fetch  my  pipe  for  me,"  said  Mr. 
Stiles.  "I  left  it  on  the  mantelpiece." 

Mr.  Burton  hesitated,  and,  the  widow  happening 
to  look  away,  shook  his  fist  at  his  superior  officer. 

335 


Admiral  Peters 

i 

"Look  sharp,"  said  Mr.  Stiles,  in  a  peremptory 
voice. 

"I'm  very  sorry,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Burton,  whose 
wits  were  being  sharpened  by  misfortune,  "but  I 
broke  it." 

"Broke  it?"  repeated  the  other. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Burton.  "I  knocked  it  on 
the  floor  and  trod  on  it  by  accident;  smashed  it  to 
powder." 

Mr.  Stiles  rated  him  roundly  for  his  carelessness, 
and  asked  him  whether  he  knew  that  it  was  a  present 
from  the  Italian  Ambassador. 

"Burton  was  always  a  clumsy  man,"  he  said,  turn- 
ing to  the  widow.  "He  had  the  name  for  it  when 
he  was  on  the  Destruction  with  me;  'Bungling  Bur- 
ton' they  called  him." 

He  divided  the  rest  of  the  evening  between  flirting 
and  recounting  various  anecdotes  of  Mr.  Burton, 
none  of  which  were  at  all  flattering  either  to  his  in- 
telligence or  to  his  sobriety,  and  the  victim,  after  one 
or  two  futile  attempts  at  contradiction,  sat  in  help- 
less wrath  as  he  saw  the  infatuation  of  the  widow. 
They  were  barely  clear  of  the  house  before  his  pent- 
up  emotions  fell  in  an  avalanche  of  words  on  the 
faithless  Mr.  Stiles. 

"I  can't  help  being  good-looking,"  said  the  latter, 
with  a  smirk. 

"Your  good  looks  wouldn't  hurt  anybody,"  said 
336 


Admiral  Peters 

Mr.  Burton,  in  a  grating  voice;  "it's  the  admiral  busi- 
ness that  fetches  her.  It's  turned  'er  head." 

Mr.  Stiles  smiled.  "She'll  say  'snap'  to  my  'snip* 
any  time,"  he  remarked.  "And  remember,  George, 
there'll  always  be  a  knife  and  fork  laid  for  you  when 
you  like  to  come." 

"I  dessay,"  retorted  Mr.  Burton,  with  a  dreadful 
sneer.  "Only  as  it  happens  I'm  going  to  tell  'er  the 
truth  about  you  first  thing  to-morrow  morning.  If  I 
can't  have  'er  you  sha'n't." 

"That'll  spoil  your  chance,  too,"  said  Mr.  Stiles. 
"She'd  never'  forgive  you  for  fooling  her  like  that. 
It  seems  a  pity  neither  of  us  should  get  her." 

"You're  a  sarpent,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Burton,  sav- 
agely— "a  sarpent  that  I've  warmed  in  my  bosom 
and " 

"There's  no  call  to  be  indelicate,  George,"  said 
Mr.  Stiles,  reprovingly,  as  he  paused  at  the  door  of 
the  house.  "Let's  sit  down  and  talk  it  over  quietly." 

Mr.  Burton  followed  him  into  the  room  and,  tak- 
ing a  chair,  waited. 

"It's  evident  she's  struck  with  me,"  said  Mr.  Stiles, 
slowly;  "it's  also  evident  that  if  you  tell  her  the  truth 
it  might  spoil  my  chances.  I  don't  say  it  would,  but 
it  might.  That  being  so,  I'm  agreeable  to  going  back 
without  seeing  her  again  by  the  six-forty  train  to- 
morrow morning  if  it's  made  worth  my  while." 

"Made  worth  your  while?"  repeated  the  other, 

337 


Admiral  Peters 

"Certainly,"  said  the  unblushing  Mr.  Stiles. 
"She's  not  a  bad-looking  woman — for  her  age — and 
it's  a  snug  little  business." 

Mr.  Burton,  suppressing  his  choler,  affected  to 
ponder.  "If  'arf  a  sovereign — "  he  said,  at  last. 

"Half  a  fiddlestick!"  said  the  other,  impatiently. 
"I  want  ten  pounds.  You've  just  drawn  your  pen- 
sion, and,  besides,  you've  been  a  saving  man  all  your 
life." 

"Ten  pounds?"  gasped  the  other.  "D'ye  think 
I've  got  a  gold-mine  in  the  back  garden?" 

Mr.  Stiles  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  crossed  his 
feet.  "I  don't  go  for  a  penny  less,"  he  said,  firmly. 
"Ten  pounds  and  my  ticket  back.  If  you  call  me  any 
more  o'  those  names  I'll  make  it  twelve." 

"And  what  am  I  to  explain  to  Mrs.  Button  ?"  de- 
manded Mr.  Burton,  after  a  quarter  of  an  hour's 
altercation. 

"Anything  you  like,"  said  his  generous  friend. 
"Tell  her  I'm  engaged  to  my  cousin,  and  our  mar- 
riage keeps  being  put  off  and  off  on  account  of  my 
eccentric  behaviour.  And  you  can  say  that  that  was 
caused  by  a  splinter  of  a  shell  striking  my  head.  Tell 
any  lies  you  like ;  I  shall  never  turn  up  again  to  con- 
tradict them.  If  she  tries  to  find  out  things  about  the 
admiral,  remind  her  that  she  promised  to  keep  his 
visit  here  secret." 

For  over  an  hour  Mr.  Burton  sat  weighing  the 

338 


Admiral  Peters 

advantages  and  disadvantages  of  this  proposal,  and 
then — Mr.  Stiles  refusing  to  seal  the  bargain  with- 
out— shook  hands  upon  it  and  went  off  to  bed  in  a 
state  of  mind  hovering  between  homicide  and  lunacy. 

He  was  up  in  good  time  next  morning,  and,  return- 
ing the  shortest  possible  answers  to  the  remarks  of 
Mr.  Stiles,  who  was  in  excellent  feather,  went  with 
him  to  the  railway  station  to  be  certain  of  his  depart- 
ure. 

It  was  a  delightful  morning,  cool  and  bright,  and, 
despite  his  misfortunes,  Mr.  Burton's  spirits  began  to 
rise  as  he  thought  of  his  approaching  deliverance. 
Gloom  again  overtook  him  at  the  booking-office, 
where  the  unconscionable  Mr.  Stiles  insisted  firmly 
upon  a  first-class  ticket. 

"Who  ever  heard  of  an  admiral  riding  third?"  he 
demanded,  indignantly. 

"But  they  don't  know  you're  an  admiral,"  urged 
Mr.  Burton,  trying  to  humour  him. 

"No;  but  I  feel  like  one,"  said  Mr.  Stiles,  slapping 
his  pocket.  "I've  always  felt  curious  to  see  what  it 
feels  like  travelling  first-class;  besides,  you  can  tell 
Mrs.  Button." 

"I  could  tell  'er  that  in  any  case,"  returned  Mr. 
Burton. 

Mr.  Stiles  looked  shocked,  and,  time  pressing,  Mr. 
Burton,  breathing  so  hard  that  it  impeded  his  utter- 
ance, purchased  a  first-class  ticket  and  conducted  him 

339 


Admiral  Peters 

to  the  carriage.     Mr.  Stiles  took  a  seat  by  the  win- 
dow, and  lolling  back  put  his  foot  up  on  the  cushions 


••'Good  riddance,*  said  Mr.  Burton,  savagely." 

34° 


Admiral  Peters 

opposite.  A  large  bell  rang  and  the  carriage-doors 
were  slammed. 

"Good-bye,  George,"  said  the  traveller,  putting 
his  head  to  the  window.  "I've  enjoyed  my  visit  very 
much." 

"Good  riddance,"  said  Mr.  Burton,  savagely. 

Mr.  Stiles  shook  his  head.  "I'm  letting  you  off 
easy,"  he  said,  slowly.  "If  it  hadn't  ha'  been  for  one 
little  thing  I'd  have  had  the  widow  myself." 

"What  little  thing?"  demanded  the  other,  as  the 
train  began  to  glide  slowly  out. 

"My  wife,"  said  Mr.  Stiles,  as  a  huge  smile  spread 
slowly  over  his  face.  "Good-bye,  George,  and  don't 
forget  to  give  my  love  when  you  go  round." 


341 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000176178     2 


